I 


t 


MODERN 

PAINTING 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR , 


ESTHER  WATERS. 

CELIBATES. 

VAIN  FORTUNE. 

A MUMMER’S  WIFE. 

A DRAMA  IN  MUSLIN. 

A MODERN  LOVER. 

THE  STRIKE  AT  ARLINGFORD  {Play), 


IMPRESSIONS  AND  OPINIONS. 


Portrait  by  Manet. 


MODERN 

PAINTING 


By  GEORGE  MOORE 


NEW  EDITION , ENLARGED 


BRENTANO’S 

5th  AVENUE  and  27TH  STREET 
NEW  YORK 


TO  SIR  WILLIAM  EDEN,  BART. 

OF  ALL  MY  BOOKS,  THIS  IS  THE  ONE  YOU  LIKE  BEST  ; 
ITS  SUBJECT  HAS  BEEN  THE  SUBJECT  OF  NEARLY  ALL 
OUR  CONVERSATIONS  IN  THE  PAST,  AND  I SUPPOSE 
WILL  BE  THE  SUBJECT  OF  MANY  CONVERSATIONS  IN 
THE  FUTURE  j SO,  LOOKING  BACK  AND  FORWARD, 

I DEDICATE  THIS  BOOK  TO  YOU. 


G.  M. 


The  WALTER  SCOTT  PUBLISHING  CO.,  LIMITED,  FELLING-ON-TYNE. 

4-o  6 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


WHISTLER 

CHAVANNES,  MILLET,  AND  MANET 

. 

• 25 

THE  FAILURE  OF  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

45 

ARTISTIC  EDUCATION  IN  FRANCE  AND 

ENGLAND 

• 59 

INGRES  AND  COROT 

. 

. 

. 70 

MONET,  SISLEY,  PISSARO,  AND  THE  DECADENCE 

. 84 

OUR  ACADEMICIANS 

• 97 

THE  ORGANISATION  OF  ART  . 

. 128 

ART  AND  SCIENCE  .... 

• 134 

ROYALTY  IN  ART  .... 

• 139 

ART  PATRONS  .... 

. 146 

PICTURE  DEALERS  .... 

• 153 

MR.  BURNE-JONES  AND  THE  ACADEMY 

. 158 

THE  ALDERMAN  IN  ART 

. 160 

RELIGIOSITY  IN  ART 

• 175 

THE  CAMERA  IN  ART 

. 182 

THE  NEW  ENGLISH  ART  CLUB 

. 190 

A GREAT  ARTIST  .... 

. 213 

NATIONALITY  IN  ART 

. 220 

SEX  IN  ART 

MR.  STEER’S  EXHIBITION 

. 226 
• 238 

CLAUDE  MONET  .... 

. 244 

NOTES  — 

MR.  MARK  FISHER  . 

. 249 

A PORTRAIT  BY  MR.  SARGENT  . 

. 251 

AN  ORCHID  BY  MR.  JAMES 

. 254 

THE  WHISTLER  ALBUM 

. 256 

INGRES  ..... 

. 258 

SOME  JAPANESE  PRINTS  . 

. 260 

NEW  ART  CRITICISM 

. 265 

LONG  AGO  IN  ITALY 

. 

. 282 

/ 


/ 


WHISTLER. 

I have  studied  Mr.  Whistler  and  thought  about  him 
this  many  a year. 4“  His  character  was  for  a long  time 
incomprehensible  to  me ; it  contained  elements 
apparently  so  antagonistic,  so  mutually  destructive, 
that  I had  to  confess  my  inability  to  bring  him 
within  any  imaginable  psychological  laws,  and  classed 
him  as  one  of  the  enigmas  of  life.  But  Nature  is 
never  illogical ; she  only  seems  so,  because  our  sight 
is  not  sufficient  to  see  into  her  intentions ; and  with 
study  my  psychological  difficulties  dwindled,  and  now 
the  man  stands  before  me  exquisitely  understood, 
a perfect  piece  of  logic.  All  that  seemed  discordant 
and  discrepant  in  his  nature  has  now  become  har- 
monious and  inevitable ; the  strangest  and  most 
erratic  actions  of  his  life  now  seem  natural  and 
consequential  (I  use  the  word  in  its  grammatical 
sense)  contradictions  are  reconciled,  and  looking 
at  the  man  I see  the  pictures,  and  looking  at  the 
pictures  I see  the  man. 

But  at  the  outset  the  difficulties  were  enormous. 


j 


2 


WHISTLER. 


It  was  like  a newly-discovered  Greek  text,  without 
punctuation  or  capital  letters.  Here  was  a man 
capable  of  painting  portraits,  perhaps  not  quite  so 
full  of  grip  as  the  best  work  done  by  Velasquez  and 
Hals,  only  just  falling  short  of  these  masters  at  the 
point  where  they  were  strongest,  but  plainly  exceeding 
them  in  graciousness  of  intention,  and  subtle  happi- 
ness of  design,  who  would  lay  down  his  palette  and 
run  to  a newspaper  office  to  polish  the  tail  of 
an  epigram  which  he  was  launching  against  an 
unfortunate  critic  who  had  failed  to  distinguish 
between  an  etching  and  a pen-and-ink  drawing ! 
Here  was  a man  who,  though  he  had  spent  the  after- 
noon painting  like  the  greatest,  would  spend  his 
evenings  in  frantic  disputes  over  dinner-tables  about 
the  ultimate  ownership  of  a mild  joke,  possibly  good 
enough  for  Punch , something  that  any  one  might  have 
said,  and  that  most  of  us  having  said  it  would  have 
forgotten  ! It  will  be  conceded  that  such  divagations 
are  difficult  to  reconcile  with  the  possession  of 
artistic  faculties  of  the  highest  order. 

The  “Ten  o’clock”  contained  a good  deal  of 
brilliant  writing,  sparkling  and  audacious  epigram,  but 
amid  all  its  glitter  and  “go”  there  are  statements 
which,  coming  from  Mr.  Whistler,  are  as  astonishing 
as  a denial  of  the  rotundity  of  the  earth  would 
be  in  a pamphlet  bearing  the  name  of  Professor 
Huxley.  Mr.  Whistler  is  only  serious  in  his  art — 
a grave  fault  according  to  academicians,  who  are 
serious  in  everything  except  their  “art.”  A very 
boyish  utterance  is  the  statement  that  such  a 
thing  as  an  artistic  period  has  never  been  known. 


WHISTLER . 


3 


One  rubbed  one’s  eyes ; one  said,  Is  this  a joke,  and, 
if  so,  where  is  the  point  of  it  ? And  then,  as  if  not 
content  with  so  much  mystification,  Mr.  Whistler 
assured  his  ten  o’clock  audience  that  there  was  no 
such  thing  as  nationality  in  art,  and  that  you  might 
as  well  speak  of  English  mathematics  as  of  English 
art.  We  do  not  stop  to  inquire  if  such  answers 
contain  one  grain  of  truth  ; we  know  they  do  not 
— we  stop  to  consider  them  because  we  know  that 
the  criticism  of  a creative  artist  never  amounts  to 
more  than  an  ingenious  defence  of  his  own  work 
— an  ingenious  exaltation  of  a weakness  (a  weakness 
which  perhaps  none  suspects  but  himself)  into  a 
conspicuous  merit. 

Mr.  Whistler  has  shared  his  life  equally  between 
America,  France,  and  England.  He  is  the  one 
solitary  example  of  cosmopolitanism  in  art,  for  there 
is  nothing  in  his  pictures  to  show  that  they  come 
from  the  north,  the  south,  the  east,  or  the  west.  They 
are  compounds  of  all  that  is  great  in  Eastern  and 
Western  culture.  Conscious  of  this,  and  fearing  that 
it  might  be  used  as  an  argument  against  his  art,  Mr. 
Whistler  threw  over  the  entire  history,  not  only  of 
art,  but  of  the  world;  and  declared  boldly  that  art 
was,  like  science,  not  national,  but  essentially  cosmo- 
politan ; and  then,  becoming  aware  of  the  anomaly 
of  his  genius  in  his  generation,  Mr.  Whistler  under- 
took to  explain  away  the  anomaly  by  ignoring  the 
fifth  century  b.c.  in  Athens,  the  fifteenth  century  in 
Italy,  and  the  seventeenth  in  Holland,  and  humbly 
submitting  that  artists  never  appeared  in  numbers 
like  swallows,  but  singly  like  aerolites.  Now  our 


4 


WHISTLER. 


task  is  not  to  disprove  these  statements,  but  to  work 
out  the  relationship  between  the  author  of  the 
“ Butterfly  Letters  ” and  the  painter  of  the  portrait 
of  “The  Mother,”  “Lady  Archibald  Campbell,” 
“Miss  Alexander,”  and  the  other  forty-one  master- 
pieces that  were  on  exhibition  in  the  Goupil  galleries. 

There  is,  however,  an  intermediate  step,  which  is 
to  point  out  the  intimate  relationship  between  the 
letter-writer  and  the  physical  man.  Although  there 
is  no  internal  evidence  to  show  that  the  pictures 
were  not  painted  by  a Frenchman,  an  Italian,  an 
Englishman,  or  a Westernised  Japanese,  it  would  be 
impossible  to  read  any  one  of  the  butterfly-signed 
letters  without  feeling  that  the  author  was  a man  of 
nerves  rather  than  a man  of  muscle,  and,  while 
reading,  we  should  involuntarily  picture  him  short 
and  thin  rather  than  tall  and  stalwart.  But  what  has 
physical  condition  got  to  do  with  painting  ? A great 
deal.  The  greatest  painters,  I mean  the  very  greatest 
- — Michael  Angelo,  Velasquez,  and  Rubens — were 
gifted  by  Nature  with  as  full  a measure  of  health 
as  of  genius.  Their  physical  constitutions  resembled 
more  those  of  bulls  than  of  men.  Michael  Angelo 
lay  on  his  back  for  three  years  painting  the  Sistine 
Chapel.  Rubens  painted  a life-size  figure  in  a 
morning  of  pleasant  work,  and  went  out  to  ride  in 
the  afternoon.  But  Nature  has  dowered  Mr.  Whistler 
with  only  genius.  His  artistic  perceptions  are  more 
exquisite  than  Velasquez’s.  He  knows  as  much, 
possibly  even  a little  more,  and  yet  the  result  is 
never  quite  equal.  Why  ? A question  of  health. 
C’est  un  temperament  de  chatte . He  cannot  pass 


WHISTLE#. 


5 


from  masterpiece  to  masterpiece  like  Velasquez.  The 
expenditure  of  nerve-force  necessary  to  produce  such 
a work  as  the  portrait  of  Lady  Archibald  Campbell 
or  Miss  Alexander  exhausts  him,  and  he  is  obliged 
to  wait  till  Nature  recoups  herself ; and  these  neces- 
sary intervals  he  has  employed  in  writing  letters 
signed  “ Butterfly  ” to  the  papers,  quarrelling  with 
Oscar  over  a few  mild  jokes,  explaining  his  artistic 
existence,  at  the  expense  of  the  entire  artistic  history 
of  the  world,  collecting  and  classifying  the  stupidities 
of  the  daily  and  weekly  press. 

But  the  lesser  side  of  a man  of  genius  is  instructive 
to  study — indeed,  it  is  necessary  that  we  should  study 
it  if  we  would  thoroughly  understand  his  genius. 
“ No  man,”  it  has  been  very  falsely  said,  “ is  a hero 
to  his  valet  de  chambre .”  The  very  opposite  is  the 
truth.  Man  will  bow  the  knee  only  to  his  own  image 
and  likeness.  The  deeper  the  humanity,  the  deeper 
the  adoration;  and  from  this  law  not  even  divinity 
is  excepted.  All  we  adore  is  human,  and  through 
knowledge  of  the  flesh  that  grovels  we  may  catch 
sight  of  the  soul  ascending  towards  the  divine  stars. 

And  so  the  contemplation  of  Mr.  Whistler,  the 
author  of  the  “ Butterfly  Letters,”  the  defender  of  his 
little  jokes  against  the  plagiarising  tongue,  should 
stimulate  rather  than  interrupt  our  prostrations. 
I said  that  Nature  had  dowered  Mr.  Whistler 
with  every  gift  except  that  of  physical  strength.  If 
Mr,  Whistler  had  the  bull-like  health  of  Michael 
Angelo,  Rubens,  and  Hals,  the  Letters  would  never 
have  been  written.  They  were  the  safety-valve 
by  which  his  strained  nerves  found  relief  from 


6 


WHISTLER. 


the  intolerable  tension  of  the  masterpiece.  He  has 
not  the  bodily  strength  to  pass  from  masterpiece  to 
masterpiece,  as  did  the  great  ones  of  old  time.  In 
the  completed  picture  slight  traces  of  his  agony 
remain.  But  painting  is  the  most  indiscreet  of  all 
the  arts,  and  here  and  there  an  omission  or  a feeble 
indication  reveal  the  painter  to  us  in  moments  of 
exasperated  impotence.  To  understand  Mr.  Whistler’s 
art  you  must  understand  his  body.  I do  not  mean 
that  Mr.  Whistler  has  suffered  from  bad  health — his 
health  has  always  been  excellent;  all  great  artists 
have  excellent  health,  but  his  constitution  is  more 
nervous  than  robust.  He  is  even  a strong  man,  but 
he  is  lacking  in  weight.  Were  he  six  inches  taller, 
and  his  bulk  proportionately  increased,  his  art  would 
be  different.  Instead  of  having  painted  a dozen 
portraits,  every  one  — even  the  mother  and  Miss 
Alexander,  which  I personally  take  to  be  the  two 
best — a little  febrile  in  its  extreme  beauty,  whilst  some, 
masterpieces  though  they  be,  are  clearly  touched  with 
weakness,  and  marked  with  hysteria  — Mr.  Whistler 
would  have  painted  a hundred  portraits,  as  strong,  as 
vigorous,  as  decisive,  and  as  easily  accomplished  as 
any  by  Velasquez  or  Hals.  But  if  Nature  had  willed 
him  so,  I do  not  think  we  should  have  had  the 
Nocturnes,  which  are  clearly  the  outcome  of  a highly- 
strung,  bloodless  nature  whetted  on  the  whetstone 
of  its  own  weakness  to  an  exasperated  sense  of 
volatile  colour  and  evanescent  light.  It  is  hardly 
possible  to  doubt  that  this  is  so  when  we  look  on 
these  canvases,  where,  in  all  the  stages  of  her  repose, 
the  night  dozes  and  dreams  upon  our  river — a creole 


WHISTLER. 


7 


in  Nocturne  34,  upon  whose  trembling  eyelids  the 
lustral  moon  is  shining;  a quadroon  in  Nocturne  17, 
who  turns  herself  out  of  the  light  anhungered  and 
set  upon  some  feast  of  dark  slumber.  And  for  the 
sake  of  these  gem-like  pictures,  whose  blue  serenities 
are  comparable  to  the  white  perfections  of  Athenian 
marbles,  we  should  have  done  well  to  yield  a little 
strength  in  portraiture,  if  the  distribution  of  Mr. 
Whistler's  genius  had  been  left  in  our  hands.  So 
Nature  has  done  her  work  well,  and  we  have  no  cause 
to  regret  the  few  pounds  of  flesh  that  she  withheld.  A 
few  pounds  more  of  flesh  and  muscle,  and  we  should 
have  had  another  Velasquez ; but  Nature  shrinks  from 
repetition,  and  at  the  last  moment  she  said,  “The 
world  has  had  Velasquez,  another  would  be  super- 
fluous : let  there  be  Jimmy  Whistler.” 

In  the  Nocturnes  Mr.  Whistler  stands  alone,  without 
a rival.  In  portraits  he  is  at  his  best  when  they  are 
near  to  his  Nocturnes  in  intention,  when  the  theme 
lends  itself  to  an  imaginative  and  decorative  treat- 
ment ; for  instance,  as  in  the  mother  or  Miss 
Alexander.  Mr.  Whistler  is  at  his  worst  when  he  is 
frankly  realistic.  I have  seen  pictures  by  Mr.  Henry 
Moore  that  I like  better  than  “The  Blue  Wave.” 
Nor  does  Mr.  Whistler  seem  to  me  to  reach  his 
highest  level  in  any  one  of  the  three  portraits — 
Lady  Archibald  Campbell,  Miss  Rose  Corder,  and 
“ the  lady  in  the  fur  jacket.”  I know  that  Mr.  Walter 
Sickert  considers  the  portrait  of  Lady  Archibald 
Campbell  to  be  Mr.  Whistler's  finest  portrait.  I 
submit,  however,  that  the  attitude  is  theatrical  and 
not  very  explicit.  It  is  a movement  that  has  not 


8 


WHISTLER . 


been  frankly  observed,  nor  is  it  a movement  that  has 
been  frankly  imagined.  It  has  none  of  the  artless 
elegance  of  Nature ; it  is  full  of  studio  combinations ; 
and  yet  it  is  not  a frankly  decorative  arrangement, 
as  the  portrait  of  the  mother  or  Miss  Alexander. 
When  Hals  painted  his  Burgomasters,  he  was  careful 
to  place  them  in  definite  and  comprehensible  sur- 
roundings. He  never  left  us  in  doubt  either  as  to 
the  time  or  the  place ; and  the  same  obligations  of 
time  and  place,  which  Hals  never  shirked,  seem  to 
me  to  rest  on  the  painter,  if  he  elects  to  paint  his 
sitter  in  any  attitude  except  one  of  conventional 
repose. 

Lady  Archibald  Campbell  is  represented  in  violent 
movement,  looking  backwards  over  her  shoulder  as 
she  walks  up  the  picture ; yet  there  is  nothing  to  show 
that  she  is  not  standing  on  the  low  table  on  which 
the  model  poses,  and  the  few  necessary  indications 
are  left  out  because  they  would  interfere  with  the 
general  harmony  of  his  picture ; because,  if  the  table 
on  which  she  is  standing  were  indicated,  the  move- 
ment of  outstretched  arm  would  be  incomprehensible. 
The  hand,  too,  is  somewhat  uncertain,  undetermined, 
and  a gesture  is  meaningless  that  the  hand  does  not 
determine  and  complete.  I do  not  speak  of  the 
fingers  of  the  right  hand,  which  are  non-existent ; 
after  a dozen  attempts  to  paint  the  gloved  hand,  only 
an  approximate  result  was  obtained.  Look  at  the 
ear,  and  say  that  the  painter’s  nerves  did  not  give  way 
once  or  twice.  And  the  likeness  is  vague  and  shadowy ; 
she  is  only  fairly  representative  of  her  class.  We  see 
fairly  well  that  she  is  a lady  du  grand  monde , who  is, 


WHISTLER. 


9 


however,  not  without  knowledge  of  les  environs  du 
Monde . But  she  is  hardly  English — she  might  be  a 
French  woman  or  an  American.  She  is  a sort  of 
hybrid.  Miss  Rose  Corder  and  “the  lady  in  the 
fur  jacket  ” are  equally  cosmopolitan ; so,  too,  is 
Miss  Alexander.  Only  once  has  Mr.  Whistler  ex- 
pressed race,  and  that  was  in  his  portrait  of  his 
mother.  Then  these  three  ladies — Miss  Corder,  Lady 
Archibald  Campbell,  and  “ the  lady  in  the  fur  jacket” 

• — wear  the  same  complexion : a pale  yellow  com- 
plexion, burnt  and  dried.  With  this  conventional 
tint  he  obtains  unison  and  a totality  of  effect ; but  he 
obtains  this  result  at  the  expense  of  truth.  Hals 
and  Velasquez  obtained  the  same  result,  without, 
however,  resorting  to  such  meretricious  methods. 

The  portrait  of  the  mother  is,  as  every  one  knows, 
in  the  Luxemburg ; but  the  engraving  reminds  us  of 
the  honour  which  France  has  done,  but  which  we 
failed  to  do,  to  the  great  painter  of  the  nineteenth 
century ; and  after  much  hesitation  and  arguing  with 
myself  I feel  sure  that  on  the  whole  this  picture  is 
the  painter’s  greatest  work  in  portraiture.  We  forget 
relations,  friends,  perhaps  even  our  parents ; but  that 
picture  we  never  forget;  it  is  for  ever  with  us,  in 
sickness  and  in  health ; and  in  moments  of  extreme 
despair,  when  life  seems  hopeless,  the  strange  magic 
of  that  picture  springs  into  consciousness,  and  we 
wonder  by  what  strange  wizard  craft  was  accom- 
plished the  marvellous  pattern  on  the  black  curtain 
that  drops  past  the  engraving  on  the  wall.  We  muse 
on  the  extraordinary  beauty  of  that  grey  wall,  on 
the  black  silhouette  sitting  so  tranquilly,  on  the  large 


10 


WHISTLER. 


feet  on  a foot-stool,  on  the  hands  crossed,  on  the  long 
black  dress  that  fills  the  picture  with  such  solemn 
harmony.  Then  mark  the  transition  from  grey  to 
white,  and  how  le  ton  local  is  carried  through  the 
entire  picture,  from  the  highest  light  to  the  deepest 
shadow.  Note  the  tenderness  of  that  white  cap,  the 
white  lace  cuffs,  the  certainty,  the  choice,  and  think 
of  anything  if  you  can,  even  in  the  best  Japanese 
work,  more  beautiful,  more  delicate,  subtle,  illusive, 
certain  in  its  handicraft ; and  if  the  lace  cuffs  are 
marvellous,  the  delicate  hands  of  a beautiful  old 
age  lying  in  a small  lace  handkerchief  are  little 
short  of  miraculous.  They  are  not  drawn  out 
in  anatomical  diagram,  but  appear  and  disappear, 
seen  here  on  the  black  dress,  lost  there  in  the 
small  white  handkerchief.  And  when  we  study 
the  faint,  subtle  outline  of  the  mother’s  face,  we 
seem  to  feel  that  there  the  painter  has  told  the 
story  of  his  soul  more  fully  than  elsewhere.  That 
soul,  strangely  alive  to  all  that  is  delicate  and  illusive 
in  Nature,  found  perhaps  its  fullest  expression  in  that 
grave  old  Puritan  lady  looking  through  the  quiet 
refinement  of  her  grey  room,  sitting  in  solemn 
profile  in  all  the  quiet  habit  of  her  long  life. 

Compared  with  later  work,  the  execution  is  “tighter,” 
if  I may  be  permitted  an  expression  which  will  be 
understood  in  studios  ; we  are  very  far  indeed  from 
the  admirable  looseness  of  handling  which  is  the 
charm  of  the  portrait  of  Miss  Rose  Corder.  There 
every  object  is  born  unconsciously  beneath  the  pass- 
ing of  the  brush.  If  not  less  certain,  the  touch  in 
the  portrait  of  the  mother  is  less  prompt;  but  the 


WHISTLER. 


ii 


painter’s  vision  is  more  sincere  and  more  intense. 
And  to  those  who  object  to  the  artificiality  of  the 
arrangement,  I reply  that  if  the  old  lady  is  sitting  in 
a room  artificially  arranged,  Lady  Archibald  Camp- 
bell may  be  said  to  be  walking  through  incomprehen- 
sible space.  But  what  really  decides  me  to  place 
this  portrait  above  the  others  is  the  fact  that 
while  painting  his  mother’s  portrait  he  was  un- 
questionably absorbed  in  his  model ; and  absorption 
in  the  model  is  perhaps  the  first  quality  in  portrait- 
painting. Still,  for  my  own  personal  pleasure,  to 
satisfy  the  innermost  cravings  of  my  own  soul,  I 
would  choose  to  live  with  the  portrait  of  Miss 
Alexander.  Truly,  this  picture  seems  to  me  the 
most  beautiful  in  the  world.  I know  very  well  that 
it  has  not  the  profound  beauty  of  the  Infantes  by 
Velasquez  in  the  Louvre;  but  for  pure  magic  of 
inspiration,  is  it  not  more  delightful?  Just  as 
Shelley’s  “ Sensitive  Plant  ” thrills  the  innermost 
sense  like  no  other  poem  in  the  language,  the  portrait 
of  Miss  Alexander  enchants  with  the  harmony  of 
colour,  with  the  melody  of  composition. 

Strangely  original,  a rare  and  unique  thing,  is  this 
picture,  yet  we  know  whence  it  came,  and  may 
easily  appreciate  the  influences  that  brought  it  into 
being.  Exquisite  and  happy  combination  of  the  art 
of  an  entire  nation  and  the  genius  of  one  man — the 
soul  of  Japan  incarnate  in  the  body  of  the  immortal 
Spaniard.  It  was  Japan  that  counselled  the  strange 
grace  of  the  silhouette,  and  it  was  that  country,  too, 
that  inspired  in  a dim,  far-off  way  those  subtly  sweet 
and  magical  passages  from  grey  to  green,  from  green 


12 


WHISTLER. 


again  to  changing  evanescent  grey.  But  a higher 
intelligence  massed  and  impelled  those  chords  of 
green  and  grey  than  ever  manifested  itself  in  Japanese 
fan  or  screen;  the  means  are  simpler,  the  effect  is 
greater,  and  by  the  side  of  this  picture  the  best 
Japanese  work  seems  only  facile  superficial  improvi- 
sation. In  the  picture  itself  there  is  really  little  of 
Japan.  The  painter  merely  understood  all  that  Japan 
might  teach.  He  went  to  the  very  root,  appropriating 
only  the  innermost  essence  of  its  art.  We  Westerns 
had  thought  it  sufficient  to  copy  Nature,  but  the 
Japanese  knew  it  was  better  to  observe  Nature.  The 
whole  art  of  Japan  is  selection,  and  Japan  taught 
Mr.  Whistler,  or  impressed  upon  Mr.  Whistler,  the 
imperative  necessity  of  selection.  No  Western  artist 
of  the  present  or  of  past  time — no,  not  Velasquez 
himself — ever  selected  from  the  model  so  tenderly  as 
Mr.  Whistler;  Japan  taught  him  to  consider  Nature 
as  a storehouse  whence  the  artist  may  pick  and 
choose,  combining  the  fragments  of  his  choice  into 
an  exquisite  whole.  Sir  John  Millais’  art  is  the 
opposite;  there  we  find  no  selection;  the  model  is 
copied — and  sometimes  only  with  sufficient  technical 
skill. 

But  this  picture  is  throughout  a selection  from  the 
model;  nowhere  has  anything  been  copied  brutally, 
yet  the  reality  of  the  girl  is  not  sacrificed. 

The  picture  represents  a girl  of  ten  or  eleven. 
She  is  dressed  according  to  the  fashion  of 
twenty  years  ago — a starched  muslin  frock,  a small 
overskirt  pale  brown,  white  stockings,  square-toed 
black  shoes.  She  stands,  her  left  foot  advanced, 


WHISTLER . 


x3 


holding  in  her  left  hand  a grey  felt  hat  adorned  with 
a long  plume  reaching  nearly  to  the  ground.  The 
wall  behind  her  is  grey  with  a black  wainscot.  On 
the  left,  far  back  in  the  picture,  on  a low  stool,  some 
grey-green  drapery  strikes  the  highest  note  of  colour 
in  the  picture.  On  the  right,  in  the  foreground,  some 
tall  daisies  come  into  the  picture,  and  two  butterflies 
flutter  over  the  girl’s  blonde  head.  This  picture 
seems  to  exist  principally  in  the  seeing ! I mean  that 
the  execution  is  so  strangely  simple  that  the  thought, 
“If  I could  only  see  the  model  like  that,  I think  I 
could  do  it  myself,”  comes  spontaneously  into  the 
mind.  And  this  spontaneous  thought  is  excellent 
criticism,  for  three-parts  of  Mr.  Whistler’s  art  lies  in 
the  seeing;  no  one  ever  saw  Nature  so  artistically. 
Notice  on  the  left  the  sharp  line  of  the  white 
frock  cutting  against  the  black  wainscoting.  Were 
that  line  taken  away,  how  much  would  the  picture 
lose ! Look  at  the  leg  that  is  advanced,  and  tell  me 
if  you  can  detect  the  modelling.  There  is  modelling, 
I know,  but  there  are  no  vulgar  roundnesses.  Appar- 
ently, only  a flat  tint;  but  there  is  on  the  bone  a 
light,  hardly  discernible;  and  this  light  is  sufficient. 
And  the  leg  that  is  turned  away,  the  thick,  chubby 
ankle  of  the  child,  how  admirable  in  drawing;  and 
that  touch  of  darker  colour,  how  it  tells  the  exact 
form  of  the  bone  ! To  indicate  is  the  final  accom- 
plishment of  the  painter’s  art,  and  I know  no 
indication  like  that  ankle  bone.  And  now  passing 
from  the  feet  to  the  face,  notice,  I beg  of  you  to 
notice — it  is  one  of  the  points  in  the  picture — that 
jaw  bone.  The  face  is  seen  in  three-quarter,  and  to 


14 


WHISTLER . 


focus  the  interest  in  the  face  the  painter  has  slightly 
insisted  on  the  line  of  the  jaw  bone,  which,  taken  in 
conjunction  with  the  line  of  the  hair,  brings  into 
prominence  the  oval  of  the  face.  In  Nature  that 
charming  oval  only  appeared  at  moments.  The 
painter  seized  one  of  those  moments,  and  called 
it  into  our  consciousness  as  a musician  with  certain 
finger  will  choose  to  give  prominence  to  a certain 
note  in  a chord. 

There  must  have  been  a day  in  Mr.  Whistler's  life 
when  the  artists  of  Japan  convinced  him  once  and 
for  ever  of  the  primary  importance  of  selection.  In 
Velasquez,  too,  there  is  selection,  and  very  often  it 
is  in  the  same  direction  as  Mr.  Whistler's,  but  the 
selection  is  never,  I think,  so  much  insisted  upon; 
and  sometimes  in  Velasquez  there  is,  as  in  the  por- 
trait of  the  Admiral  in  the  National  Gallery,  hardly 
any  selection — I mean,  of  course,  conscious  selec- 
tion. Velasquez  sometimes  brutally  accepted  Nature 
for  what  she  was  worth;  this  Mr.  Whistler  never 
does.  But  it  was  Velasquez  that  gave  consistency 
and  strength  to  what  in  Mr.  Whistler  might  have 
run  into  an  art  of  trivial  but  exquisite  decoration. 
Velasquez,  too,  had  a voice  in  the  composition  of 
the  palette  generally,  so  sober,  so  grave.  The 
palette  of  Velasquez  is  the  opposite  of  the  palette 
of  Rubens;  the  fantasy  of  Rubens'  palette  created 
the  art  of  Watteau,  Turner,  Gainsborough ; it 
obtained  throughout  the  eighteenth  century  in 
England  and  in  France.  Chardin  was  the  one  excep- 
tion. Alone  amid  the  eighteenth  century  painters  he 
chose  the  palette  of  Velasquez  in  preference  to  that 


WHISTLER. 


*5 

of  Rubens,  and  in  the  nineteenth  century  Whistler 
too  has  chosen  it.  It  was  Velasquez  who  taught 
Mr.  Whistler  that  flowing,  limpid  execution.  In  the 
painting  of  that  blonde  hair  there  is  something  more 
than  a souvenir  of  the  blonde  hair  of  the  Infante  in 
the  salle  carree  in  the  Louvre.  There  is  also  some- 
thing of  Velasquez  in  the  black  notes  of  the  shoes. 
Those  blacks — are  they  not  perfectly  observed? 
How  light  and  dry  the  colour  is ! How  heavy  and 
shiny  it  would  have  become  in  other  hands  ! Notice, 
too,  that  in  the  frock  nowhere  is  there  a single  touch 
of  pure  white,  and  yet  it  is  all  white— a rich,  luminous 
white  that  makes  every  other  white  in  the  gallery  seem 
either  chalky  or  dirty.  What  an  enchantment  and  a 
delight  the  handling  is ! How  flowing,  how  supple, 
infinitely  and  beautifully  sure,  the  music  of  perfect 
accomplishment ! In  the  portrait  of  the  mother  the 
execution  seems  slower,  hardly  so  spontaneous.  For 
this,  no  doubt,  the  subject  is  accountable.  But  this 
little  girl  is  the  very  finest  flower,  and  the  culminating 
point  of  Mr.  Whistler’s  art.  The  eye  travels  over  the 
canvas  seeking  a fault.  In  vain;  nothing  has  been 
omitted  that  might  have  been  included,  nothing  has 
been  included  that  might  have  been  omitted.  There 
is  much  in  Velasquez  that  is  stronger,  but  nothing 
in  this  world  ever  seemed  to  me  so  perfect  as  this 
picture. 

The  portrait  of  Carlyle  has  been  painted  about  an 
arabesque  similar,  I might  almost  say  identical,  to  that 
of  the  portrait  of  the  mother.  But  as  is  usually  the 
case,  the  attempt  to  repeat  a success  has  resulted 
a failure.  Mr.  Whistler  has  sought  to  vary  the  arab- 


1 6 


WHISTLER . 


esque  in  the  direction  of  greater  naturalness.  He 
has  broken  the  severity  of  the  line,  which  the  lace 
handkerchief  and  the  hands  scarcely  stayed  in  the 
first  picture,  by  placing  the  philosopher’s  hat  upon 
his  knees ; he  has  attenuated  the  symmetry  of  the 
picture-frames  on  the  walls,  and  has  omitted  the  black 
curtain  which  drops  through  the  earlier  picture.  And 
all  these  alterations  seemed  to  me  like  so  many  leaks 
through  which  the  eternal  something  of  the  first 
design  has  run  out.  A pattern  like  that  of  the  egg 
and  dart  cannot  be  disturbed,  and  Columbus  himself 
cannot  rediscover  America.  And,  turning  from  the 
arabesque  to  the  painting,  we  notice  at  once  that 
the  balance  of  colour,  held  with  such  exquisite  grace 
by  the  curtain  on  one  side  and  the  dress  on  the 
other,  is  absent  in  the  later  work ; and  if  we  examine 
the  colours  separately  we  cannot  fail  to  apprehend 
the  fact  that  the  blacks  in  the  later  are  not  nearly 
so  beautiful  as  those  in  the  earlier  picture.  The  blacks 
of  the  philosopher’s  coat  and  rug  are  neither  as  rich, 
not  as  rare,  nor  as  deep  as  the  blacks  of  the  mother’s 
gown.  Never  have  the  vital  differences  and  the 
beauty  of  this  colour  been  brought  out  as  in  that 
gown  and  that  curtain,  never  even  in  Hals,  who 
excels  all  other  painters  in  this  use  of  black. 
Mr.  Whistler’s  failure  with  the  first  colour,  when  we 
compare  the  two  pictures,  is  exceeded  by  his  failure 
with  the  second  colour.  We  miss  the  beauty  of  those 
extraordinary  and  exquisite  high  notes — the  cap  and 
cuffs ; and  the  place  of  the  rich,  palpitating  greys,  so 
tremulous  in  the  background  of  the  earlier  picture, 
is  taken  by  an  insignificant  grey  that  hardly  seems 


WHISTLER. 


* 7 


necessary  or  helpful  to  the  coat  and  rug,  and  is  only 
just  raised  out  of  the  commonplace  by  the  dim 
yellow  of  two  picture-frames.  It  must  be  admitted, 
however,  that  the  yellow  is  perfectly  successful;  it 
may  be  almost  said  to  be  what  is  most  attractive 
in  the  picture.  The  greys  in  chin,  beard,  and  hair 
must,  however,  be  admitted  to  be  beautiful,  although 
they  are  not  so  full  of  charm  as  the  greys  in  the 
portrait  of  Miss  Alexander. 

But  if  Mr.  Whistler  had  only  failed  in  these 
matters,  he  might  have  still  produced  a master- 
piece. But  there  is  a graver  criticism  to  be  urged 
against  the  picture.  A portrait  is  an  exact  reflec- 
tion of  the  painter’s  state  of  soul  at  the  moment 
of  sitting  down  to  paint.  We  read  in  the  picture 
what  he  really  desired;  for  what  he  really  desired 
is  in  the  picture,  and  his  hesitations  tell  us  what 
he  only  desired  feebly.  Every  passing  distraction, 
every  weariness,  every  loss  of  interest  in  the  model, 
all  is  written  upon  the  canvas.  Above  all,  he  tells 
us  most  plainly  what  he  thought  about  his  model — 
whether  he  was  moved  by  love  or  contempt ; whether 
his  moods  were  critical  or  reverential.  And  what  the 
canvas  under  consideration  tells  most  plainly  is  that 
Mr.  Whistler  never  forgot  his  own  personality  in  that 
of  the  ancient  philosopher.  He  came  into  the  room 
as  chirpy  and  anecdotal  as  usual,  in  no  way  dis- 
countenanced or  put  about  by  the  presence  of  his 
venerable  and  illustrious  sitter.  He  had  heard  that 
the  Chelsea  sage  wrote  histories  which  were  no  doubt 
very  learned,  but  he  felt  no  particular  interest  in  the 
matter.  Of  reverence,  respect,  or  intimate  knowledge 

2 


i8 


WHISTLER. 


of  Carlyle  there  is  no  trace  on  the  canvas;  and  looked 
at  from  this  side  the  picture  may  be  said  to  be  the 
most  American  of  ail  Mr.  Whistler’s  works.  “ I 
am  quite  as  big  a man  as  you,”  to  put  it  bluntly, 
was  Mr.  Whistler’s  attitude  of  mind  while  painting 
Carlyle.  I do  not  contest  the  truth  of  the  opinion. 
I merely  submit  that  that  is  not  the  frame  of  mind  in 
which  great  portraiture  is  done. 

The  drawing  is  large,  ample,  and  vigorous,  beauti- 
fully understood,  but  not  very  profound  or  intimate : 
the  picture  seems  to  have  been  accomplished  easily, 
and  in  excellent  health  and  spirits.  The  painting  is  in 
Mr.  Whistler’s  later  and  most  characteristic  manner. 
For  many  years — for  certainly  twenty  years — his 
manner  has  hardly  varied  at  all.  He  uses  his 
colour  very  thin,  so  thinly  that  it  often  hardly 
amounts  to  more  than  a glaze,  and  painting  is  laid 
over  painting,  like  skin  upon  skin.  Regarded  merely 
as  brushwork,  the  face  of  the  sage  could  hardly  be 
surpassed ; the  modelling  is  that  beautiful  flat  model- 
ling, of  which  none  except  Mr.  Whistler  possesses 
the  secrets.  What  the  painter  saw  he  rendered  with 
incomparable  skill.  The  vision  of  the  rugged  pen- 
siveness of  the  old  philosophers  is  as  beautiful  and 
as  shallow  as  a page  of  De  Quincey.  We  are  carried 
away  in  a flow  of  exquisite  eloquence,  but  the  painter 
has  not  told  us  one  significant  fact  about  his  model, 
his  nationality,  his  temperament,  his  rank,  his  manner 
of  life.  We  learn  in  a general  way  that  he  was  a 
thinker;  but  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  draw 
the  head  at  all  and  conceal  so  salient  a charac- 
teristic. Mr.  Whistler’s  portrait  reveals  certain 


WHISTLER. 


*9 

general  observations  of  life;  but  has  he  given  one 
single  touch  intimately  characteristic  of  his  model  ? 

But  if  the  portrait  of  Carlyle,  when  looked  at  from  a 
certain  side,  must  be  admitted  to  be  not  wholly  satis- 
factory, what  shall  be  said  of  the  portrait  of  Lady  Meux? 
The  dress  is  a luminous  and  harmonious  piece  of 
colouring,  the  material  has  its  weight  and  its  texture 
and  its  character  of  fold ; but  of  the  face  it  is  difficult 
to  say  more  than  that  it  keeps  its  place  in  the  picture. 
Very  often  the  faces  in  Mr.  Whistler's  portraits  are 
the  least  interesting  part  of  the  picture;  his  sitter's 
face  does  not  seem  to  interest  him  more  than  the 
cuffs,  the  carpet,  the  butterfly,  which  hovers  about 
the  screen.  After  this  admission,  it  will  seem  to 
many  that  it  is  waste  of  time  to  consider  further 
Mr.  Whistler's  claim  to  portraiture.  This  is  not  so. 
Mr.  Whistler  is  a great  portrait  painter,  though  he 
cannot  take  measurements  or  follow  an  outline  like 
Holbein. 

Like  most  great  painters,  he  has  known  how 
to  introduce  harmonious  variation  into  his  style  by 
taking  from  others  just  as  much  of  their  sense  of 
beauty  as  his  own  nature  might  successfully  assimilate. 
I have  spoken  of  his  assimilation  and  combination 
of  the  art  of  Velasquez,  and  the  entire  art  of  Japan, 
but  a still  more  striking  instance  of  the  power  of 
assimilation,  which,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  only  the 
most  original  natures  possess,  is  to  hand  in  the  early 
but  extremely  beautiful  picture,  La  femme  en  bla?ic . 
In  the  Chelsea  period  of  his  life  Mr.  Whistler  saw  a 
great  deal  of  that  singular  man,  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 
Intensely  Italian,  though  he  had  never  seen  Italy; 


20 


WHISTLER. 


and  though  writing  no  language  but  ours,  still  writ- 
ing it  with  a strange  hybrid  grace,  bringing  into  it 
the  rich  and  voluptuous  colour  and  fragrance  of  the 
south,  expressing  in  picture  and  poem  nothing  but  an 
uneasy  haunting  sense  of  Italy — opulence  of  women, 
not  of  the  south,  nor  yet  of  the  north,  Italian  celebra- 
tion, mystic  altar  linen,  and  pomp  of  gold  vestment 
and  legendary  pane.  Of  such  hauntings  Rossetti's 
life  and  art  were  made. 

His  hold  on  poetic  form  was  surer  than  his  hold  on 
pictorial  form,  wherein  his  art  is  hardly  more  than 
poetic  reminiscence  of  Italian  missal  and  window 
pane.  Yet  even  as  a painter  his  attractiveness  cannot 
be  denied,  nor  yet  the  influence  he  has  exercised  on 
English  art.  Though  he  took  nothing  from  his  con- 
temporaries, all  took  from  him,  poets  and  painters 
alike.  Not  even  Mr.  Whistler  could  refrain,  and  in 
La  femme  en  blanc  he  took  from  Rossetti  his  manner 
of  feeling  and  seeing.  The  type  of  woman  is  the 
same — beauty  of  dreaming  eyes  and  abundant  hair. 
And  in  this  picture  we  find  a poetic  interest,  a moral 
sense,  if  I may  so  phrase  it,  nowhere  else  to  be  detected, 
though  you  search  Mr.  Whistler's  work  from  end  to 
end.  The  woman  stands  idly  dreaming  by  her  mirror. 
She  is  what  is  her  image  in  the  glass,  an  appearance 
that  has  come,  and  that  will  go  leaving  no  more  trace 
than  her  reflection  on  the  glass  when  she  herself  has 
moved  away.  She  sees  in  her  dream  the  world  like 
passing  shadows  thrown  on  an  illuminated  cloth.  She 
thinks  of  her  soft,  white,  and  opulent  beauty  which 
fills  her  white  dress;  her  chin  is  lifted,  and  above  her 
face  shines  the  golden  tumult  of  her  hair. 


WHISTLER. 


21 


The  picture  is  one  of  the  most  perfect  that  Mr. 
Whistler  has  painted;  it  is  as  perfect  as  the  mother 
or  Miss  Alexander,  and  though  it  has  not  the  beauti- 
ful, flowing,  supple  execution  of  the  “symphony  in 
white,”  I prefer  it  for  sake  of  its  sheer  perfection.  It 
is  more  perfect  than  the  symphony  in  white,  though 
there  is  nothing  in  it  quite  so  extraordinary  as  the 
loving  gaiety  of  the  young  girl’s  face.  The  execution 
of  that  face  is  as  flowing,  as  spontaneous,  and  as  bright 
as  the  most  beautiful  day  of  May.  The  white  drapery 
clings  like  haze  about  the  edge  of  the  woods,  and 
the  flesh  tints  are  pearly  and  evanescent  as  dew,  and 
soft  as  the  colour  of  a flowering  mead.  But  the 
kneeling  figure  is  not  so  perfect,  and  that  is  why  I 
reluctantly  give  my  preference  to  the  woman  by  the 
mirror.  Turning  again  to  this  picture,  I would  fain  call 
attention  to  the  azalias,  which,  in  irresponsible  decora- 
tive fashion,  come  into  the  right-hand  corner.  The 
delicate  flowers  show  bright  and  clear  on  the  black- 
leaded  fire-grate;  and  it  is  in  the  painting  of  such 
detail  that  Mr.  Whistler  exceeds  all  painters.  For 
purity  of  colour  and  the  beauty  of  pattern,  these 
flowers  are  surely  as  beautiful  as  anything  that  man’s 
hand  has  ever  accomplished. 

Mr.  Whistler  has  never  tried  to  be  original.  He 
has  never  attempted  to  reproduce  on  canvas  the  dis- 
cordant and  discrepant  extravagancies  of  Nature  as 
M.  Besnard  and  Mr.  John  Sargent  have  done.  His 
style  has  always  been  marked  by  such  extreme  reserve 
that  the  critical  must  have  sometimes  inclined  to 
reproach  him  with  want  of  daring,  and  ask  them- 
selves where  was  the  innovator  in  this  calculated 


22 


WHISTLER. 


reduction  of  tones,  in  these  formal  harmonies,  in  this 
constant  synthesis,  sought  with  far  more  disregard  for 
superfluous  detail  than  Hals,  for  instance,  had  ever 
dared  to  show.  The  still  more  critical,  while  admit- 
ting the  beauty  and  the  grace  of  this  art,  must  have 
often  asked  themselves  what,  after  all,  has  this  painter 
invented,  what  new  subject-matter  has  he  introduced 
into  art  ? 

It  was  with  the  night  that  Mr.  Whistler  set  his  seal 
and  sign-manual  upon  art;  above  all  others  he  is 
surely  the  interpreter  of  the  night.  Until  he  came 
the  night  of  the  painter  was  as  ugly  and  insignificant 
as  any  pitch  barrel;  it  was  he  who  first  transferred 
to  canvas  the  blue  transparent  darkness  which  folds 
the  world  from  sunset  to  sunrise.  The  purple  hollow, 
and  all  the  illusive  distances  of  the  gas-lit  river,  are 
Mr.  Whistler’s  own.  It  was  not  the  unhabited  night 
of  lonely  plain  and  desolate  tarn  that  he  chose  to 
interpret,  but  the  difficult  populous  city  night — the 
night  of  tall  bridges  and  vast  water  rained  through 
with  lights  red  and  grey,  the  shores  lined  with  the 
lamps  of  the  watching  city.  Mr.  Whistler’s  night  is 
the  vast  blue  and  golden  caravanry,  where  the  jaded 
and  the  hungry  and  the  heavy-hearted  lay  down  their 
burdens,  and  the  contemplative  freed  from  the  decep- 
tive reality  of  the  day  understand  humbly  and  patheti- 
cally the  casualness  of  our  habitation,  and  the  limitless 
reality  of  a plan,  the  intention  of  which  we  shall 
never  know.  Mr.  Whistler’s  nights  are  the  blue  trans- 
parent darknesses  which  are  half  of  the  world’s  life. 
Sometimes  he  foregoes  even  the  aid  of  earthly  light, 
and  his  picture  is  but  luminous  blue  shadow,  delicately 


WHISTLER . 


23 


graduated,  as  in  the  nocturne  in  M.  Duress  codec* 
tion — purple  above  and  below,  a shadow  in  the 
middle  of  the  picture — a little  less  and  there  would  be 
nothing. 

There  is  the  celebrated  nocturne  in  the  shape  of 
a T — one  pier  of  the  bridge  and  part  of  the  arch, 
the  mystery  of  the  barge,  and  the  figure  guiding  the 
barge  in  the  current,  the  strange  luminosity  of  the 
fleeting  river!  lines  of  lights,  vague  purple  and  illusive 
distance,  and  all  is  so  obviously  beautiful  that  one 
pauses  to  consider  how  there  could  have  been  stupidity 
enough  to  deny  it.  Of  less  dramatic  significance,  but 
of  equal  aesthetic  value,  is  the  nocturne  known  as 
“the  Cremorne  lights.”  Here  the  night  is  strangely 
pale;  one  of  those  summer  nights  when  a slight 
veil  of  darkness  is  drawn  for  an  hour  or  more  across 
the  heavens.  Another  of  quite  extraordinary  beauty, 
even  in  a series  of  extraordinarily  beautiful  things, 
is  “ Night  on  the  Sea.”  The  waves  curl  white  in 
the  darkness,  and  figures  are  seen  as  in  dreams; 
lights  burn  low,  ships  rock  in  the  offing,  and 
beyond  them,  lost  in  the  night,  a vague  sense  of 
illimitable  sea. 

Out  of  the  night  Mr.  Whistler  has  gathered  beauty 
as  august  as  Phidias  took  from  Greek  youths. 
Nocturne  1 1 is  the  picture  which  Professor  Ruskin 
declared  to  be  equivalent  to  flinging  a pot  of  paint  in 
the  face  of  the  public.  But  that  black  night,  filling  the 
garden  even  to  the  sky’s  obliteration,  is  not  black  paint 
but  darkness.  The  whirl  of  the  St.  Catherine  wheel 
in  the  midst  of  this  darkness  amounts  to  a miracle, 
and  the  exquisite  drawing  of  the  shower  of  falling  fire 


24 


WHISTLER. 


would  arouse  envy  in  Rembrandt,  and  prompt  imita- 
tion. The  line  of  the  watching  crowd  is  only  just 
indicated,  and  yet  the  garden  is  crowded.  There  is 
another  nocturne  in  which  rockets  are  rising  and 
falling,  and  the  drawing  of  these  two  showers  of  fire 
is  so  perfect,  that  when  you  turn  quickly  towards  the 
picture,  the  sparks  really  do  ascend  and  descend. 

More  than  any  other  painter,  Mr.  Whistler’s 
influence  has  made  itself  felt  on  English  art.  More 
than  any  other  man,  Mr.  Whistler  has  helped  to 
purge  art  of  the  vice  of  subject  and  belief  that 
the  mission  of  the  artist  is  to  copy  nature.  Mr. 
Whistler’s  method  is  more  learned,  more  co-ordinate 
than  that  of  any  other  painter  of  our  time;  all  is 
preconceived  from  the  first  touch  to  the  last,  nor 
has  there  ever  been  much  change  in  the  method, 
the  painting  has  grown  looser,  but  the  method  was 
always  the  same ; to  have  seen  him  paint  at  once  is 
to  have  seen  him  paint  at  every  moment  of  his  life. 
Never  did  a man  seem  more  admirably  destined  to 
found  a school  which  should  worthily  carry  on  the 
tradition  inherited  from  the  old  masters  and  repre- 
sented only  by  him.  All  the  younger  generation  has 
accepted  him  as  master,  and  that  my  generation  has 
not  profited  more  than  it  has,  leads  me  to  think, 
however  elegant,  refined,  emotional,  educated  it  may 
be,  and  anxious  to  achieve,  that  it  is  lacking  in 
creative  force,  that  it  is,  in  a word,  slightly  too  slight. 


CHAVANNES,  MILLET,  AND  MANET. 


Of  the  great  painters  born  before  1840  only  two 
now  are  living,  Puvis  de  Chavannes  and  Degas.  It 
is  true  to  say  of  Chavannes  that  he  is  the  only 
man  alive  to  whom  a beautiful  building  might  be 
given  for  decoration  without  fear  that  its  beauty 
would  be  disgraced.  He  is  the  one  man  alive  who 
can  cover  twenty  feet  of  wall  or  vaulted  roof  with 
decoration  that  will  neither  deform  the  grandeur 
nor  jar  the  greyness  of  the  masonry.  Mural 
decoration  in  his  eyes  is  not  merely  a picture  let 
into  a wall,  nor  is  it  necessarily  mural  decoration 
even  if  it  be  painted  on  the  wall  itself:  it  is  mural 
decoration  if  it  form  part  of  the  wall,  if  it  be,  if  I 
may  so  express  myself,  a variant  of  the  stonework. 
No  other  painter  ever  kept  this  end  so  strictly 
before  his  eyes.  For  this  end  Chavannes  reduced 
his  palette  almost  to  a monochrome,  for  this  end  he 
models  in  two  flat  tints,  for  this  end  he  draws  in 
huge  undisciplined  masses. 

Let  us  examine  his  palette : many  various  greys, 
some  warmed  with  vermilion,  some  with  umber,  and 
many  more  that  are  mere  mixtures  of  black  and 
white,  large  quantities  of  white,  for  Chavannes 
paints  in  a high  key,  wishing  to  disturb  the  colour 
of  the  surrounding  stone  as  little  as  may  be.  Grey 


26  CHA  VANNES,  MILLET,  AND  MANET. 


and  blue  are  the  natural  colours  of  building  stone; 
when  the  subject  will  not  admit  of  subterfuge,  he 
will  introduce  a shade  of  pale  green,  as  in  his 
great  decoration  entitled  “Summer”;  but  grey  is 
always  the  foundation  of  his  palette,  and  it  fills 
the  middle  of  the  picture.  The  blues  are  placed 
at  the  top  and  bottom,  and  he  works  between  them 
in  successive  greys.  The  sky  in  the  left-hand  top 
corner  is  an  ultramarine  slightly  broken  with  white ; 
the  blue  gown  at  the  bottom  of  the  picture,  not  quite 
in  the  middle  of  the  picture,  a little  on  the  right,  is 
also  ultramarine,  and  here  the  colour  is  used  nearly 
in  its  first  intensity.  And  the  colossal  woman  who 
wears  the  blue  gown  leans  against  some  grey  forest 
tree  trunk,  and  a great  white  primeval  animal 
is  what  her  forms  and  attitude  suggest.  There 
are  some  women  about  her,  and  they  lie  and  sit 
in  disconnected  groups  like  fragments  fallen  from  a 
pediment.  Nor  is  any  attempt  made  to  relate,  by 
the  aid  of  vague  look  or  gesture,  this  group  in  the 
foreground  to  the  human  hordes  engaged  in  building 
enclosures  in  the  middle  distance.  In  Chavannes 
the  composition  is  always  as  disparate  as  an  early 
tapestry,  and  the  drawing  of  the  figures  is  almost  as 
rude.  If  I may  be  permitted  a French  phrase,  I 
will  say  ?m  peu  sommaire  quite  unlike  the  beautiful 
simplifications  of  Raphael  or  Ingres,  or  indeed  any 
of  the  great  masters.  They  could  simplify  without 
becoming  rudimentary ; Chavannes  cannot. 

And  now  a passing  word  about  the  handicraft,  the 
manner  of  using  the  brush.  Chavannes  shares  the 
modern  belief — and  only  in  this  is  he  modern — that 


CHA  VANNES,  MILLET,  AND  MANET  27 

for  the  service  of  thought  one  instrument  is  as  apt 
as  another,  and  that,  so  long  as  that  man’s  back — he 
who  is  pulling  at  the  rope  fastened  at  the  tree’s  top 
branches — is  filled  in  with  two  grey  tints,  it  matters 
not  at  all  how  the  task  is  accomplished.  Truly  the 
brush  has  plastered  that  back  as  a trowel  might, 
and  the  result  reminds  one  of  stone  and  mortar,  as 
Millet’s  execution  reminds  one  of  mud-pie  making. 
The  handicraft  is  as  barbarous  in  Chavannes  as  it  is 
in  Millet,  and  we  think  of  them  more  as  great  poets 
working  in  a not  wholly  sympathetic  and,  in  their 
hands,  somewhat  rebellious  material.  Chavannes  is 
as  an  epic  poet  whose  theme  is  the  rude  grandeur 
of  the  primeval  world,  and  who  sang  his  rough 
narrative  to  a few  chords  struck  on  a sparely- stringed 
harp  that  his  own  hands  have  fashioned.  And  is 
not  Millet  a sort  of  French  Wordsworth  who  in 
a barbarous  Breton  dialect  has  told  us  in  infinitely 
touching  strains  of  the  noble  submission  of  the 
peasant’s  lot,  his  unending  labours  and  the  melan- 
choly solitude  of  the  country. 

As  poet-painters,  none  admires  these  great  artists 
more  than  I,  but  the  moment  we  consider  them  as 
painters  we  have  to  compare  the  handicraft  of  the 
decoration  entitled  “ Summer  ” with  that  of  Francis 
the  First  meeting  Marie  de  Medicis;  we  have  to 
compare  the  handicraft  of  the  Sower  and  the  Angelus 
with  that  of  “Le  Bon  Bock”  and  “L’enfant  a Tepee”; 
and  the  moment  we  institute  such  comparison  does 
not  the  inferiority  of  Chavannes’  and  Millet’s  handi- 
craft become  visible  even  to  the  least  initiated  in 
the  art  of  painting,  and  is  not  the  conclusion  forced 


28  CHAVANNES,  MILLET,  AND  MANET. 


upon  us  that  however  Manet  may  be  judged  inferior 
to  Millet  as  a poet,  as  a painter  he  is  easily  his 
superior?  And  as  Millet’s  and  Chavannes’  brush- 
work  is  deficient  in  beauty  so  is  their  drawing. 
Preferring  decorative  unity  to  completeness  of 
drawing,  Chavannes  does  not  attempt  more  than 
some  rudimentary  indications.  Millet  seems  even 
to  have  desired  to  omit  technical  beauty,  so  that  he 
might  concentrate  all  thought  on  the  poetic  synthesis 
he  was  gathering  from  the  earth.  Degas,  on  the 
contrary,  draws  for  the  sake  of  the  drawing— The 
Ballet  Girl,  The  Washerwoman,  The  Fat  Housewife 
bathing  herself,  is  only  a pretext  for  drawing;  and 
Degas  chose  these  extraordinary  themes  because  the 
drawing  of  the  ballet  girl  and  the  fat  housewife 
is  less  known  than  that  of  the  nymph  and  the 
Spartan  youth.  Painters  will  understand  what  I 
mean  by  the  drawing  being  “ less  known,” — that 
knowledge  of  form  which  sustains  the  artist  like  a 
crutch  in  his  examination  of  the  model,  and  which 
as  it  were  dictates  to  the  eye  what  it  must  see.  So 
the  ballet  girl  was  Degas’  escapement  from  the 
thraldom  of  common  knowledge.  The  ballet  girl 
was  virgin  soil.  In  her  meagre  thwarted  forms 
application  could  freely  be  made  of  the  supple 
incisive  drawing  which  bends  to  and  flows  with  the 
character — that  drawing  of  which  Ingres  was  the 
supreme  patron,  and  of  which  Degas  is  the  sole 
inheritor. 

Until  a few  years  ago  Chavannes  never  sold  a 
picture.  Millet  lived  his  life  in  penury  and  obscurity, 
but  thirty  years  of  persistent  ridicule  having  failed  to 


CHA  VANNES,  MILLET,  AND  MANET  29 

destroy  Degas’  genius,  some  recognition  has  been 
extended  to  it.  The  fate  of  all  great  artists  in  the 
nineteenth  century  is  a score  years  of  neglect  and 
obloquy.  They  may  hardly  hope  for  recognition 
before  they  are  fifty;  some  few  cases  point  the  other 
way,  but  very  few — the  rule  is  thirty  years  of  neglect 
and  obloquy.  Then  a flag  of  truce  will  be  held  out 
to  the  recalcitrant  artist  who  cannot  be  prevented 
from  painting  beautiful  pictures.  “ Come,  let  us  be 
friends ; let’s  kiss  and  make  it  up ; send  a picture  to 
the  academy;  we’ll  hang  it  on  the  line,  and  make 
you  an  academician  the  first  vacancy  that  occurs.” 
To-day  the  academy  would  like  to  get  Mr.  Whistler, 
but  Mr.  Whistler  replies  to  the  academy  as  Degas 
replied  to  the  government  official  who  wanted  a 
picture  for  the  Luxembourg.  Non,  je  ne  veux  pas 
etre  conduit  au  poste par  les  sargents  de  ville  d'arts . 

To  understand  Manet’s  genius,  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury would  have  required  ten  years  more  than  usual, 
for  in  Manet  there  is  nothing  but  good  painting,  and 
there  is  nothing  that  the  nineteenth  century  dislikes 
as  much  as  good  painting.  In  Whistler  there  is  an 
exquisite  and  inveigling  sense  of  beauty ; in  Degas 
there  is  an  extraordinary  acute  criticism  of  life,  and 
so  the  least  brutal  section  of  the  public  ended  by 
pardoning  Whistler  his  brush-work,  and  Degas  his 
beautiful  drawing.  But  in  Manet  there  is  nothing 
but  good  painting,  and  it  is  therefore  possible  that 
he  might  have  lived  till  he  was  eighty  without  obtain- 
ing recognition.  Death  alone  could  accomplish  the 
miracle  of  opening  the  public’s  eyes  to  his  merits. 
During  his  life  the  excuse  given  for  the  constant 


30  CHA  VANNES,  MILLET,  AND  MANET. 


persecution  waged  against  him  by  the  “ authorities  ” 
was  his  excessive  originality.  But  this  was  mere 
subterfuge;  what  was  really  hated — what  made  him 
so  unpopular — was  the  extraordinary  beauty  of  his 
handling.  Whatever  he  painted  became  beautiful — 
his  hand  was  dowered  with  the  gift  of  quality,  and 
there  his  art  began  and  ended.  His  painting  of  still 
life  never  has  been  exceeded,  and  never  will  be.  I 
remember  a pear  that  used  to  hang  in  his  studio. 
Hals  would  have  taken  his  hat  off  to  it. 

Twenty  years  ago  Manet’s  name  was  a folly  and  a 
byword  in  the  Parisian  studios.  The  students  of  the 
Beaux  Arts  used  to  stand  before  his  salon  pictures 
and  sincerely  wonder  how  any  one  could  paint  like 
that ; the  students  were  quite  sure  that  it  was  done 
for  a joke,  to  attract  attention ; and  then,  not  quite 
sincerely,  one  would  say,  “ But  I’ll  undertake  to  paint 
you  three  pictures  a week  like  that.”  I say  that  the 
remark  was  never  quite  sincere,  for  I never  heard  it 
made  without  some  one  answering,  “ I don’t  think 
you  could;  just  come  and  look  at  it  again — there’s 
more  in  it  than  you  think.”  No  doubt  we  thought 
Manet  very  absurd,  but  there  was  always  something 
forced  and  artificial  in  our  laughter  and  the  ridicule 
we  heaped  upon  him. 

But  about  that  time  my  opinions  were  changing ; 
and  it  was  a great  event  in  my  life  when  Manet 
spoke  to  me  in  the  cafe  of  the  Nouvelle  Athene.  I 
knew  it  was  Manet ; he  had  been  pointed  out  to  me, 
and  I had  admired  the  finely-cut  face  from  whose 
prominent  chin  a closely-cut  blonde  beard  came  for- 
ward ; and  the  aquiline  nose,  the  clear  grey  eyes, 


CHA  VANNES,  MILLET,  AND  MANET  31 

the  decisive  voice,  the  remarkable  comeliness  of 
the  well-knit  figure,  scrupulously  but  simply  dressed, 
represented  a personality  curiously  sympathetic.  On 
several  occasions  shyness  had  compelled  me  to 
abandon  my  determination  to  speak  to  him.  But 
once  he  had  spoken  I entered  eagerly  into  conversa- 
tion, and  next  day  I went  to  his  studio.  It  was  quite 
a simple  place.  Manet  expended  his  aestheticism 
on  his  canvases,  and  not  upon  tapestries  and  inlaid 
cabinets.  There  was  very  little  in  his  studio  except 
his  pictures : a sofa,  a rocking-chair,  a table  for  his 
paints,  and  a marble  table  on  iron  supports,  such  as 
one  sees  in  cafes.  Being  a fresh-complexioned,  fair- 
haired young  man,  the  type  most  suitable  to  Manet’s 
palette,  he  at  once  asked  me  to  sit.  His  first  inten- 
tion was  to  paint  me  in  a cafe ; he  had  met  me  in  a 
cafe,  and  he  thought  he  could  realise  his  impression 
of  me  in  the  first  surrounding  he  had  seen  me  in. 

The  portrait  did  not  come  right;  ultimately 
it  was  destroyed;  but  it  gave  me  every  oppor- 
tunity of  studying  Manet’s  method  of  painting. 
Strictly  speaking,  he  had  no  method ; painting  with 
him  was  a pure  instinct.  Painting  was  one  of  the 
ways  his  nature  manifested  itself.  That  frank,  fear- 
less, prompt  nature  manifested  itself  in  everything 
that  concerned  him— in  his  large  plain  studio,  full 
of  light  as  a conservatory;  in  his  simple,  scrupulous 
clothes,  and  yet  with  a touch  of  the  dandy  about 
them ; in  decisive  speech,  quick,  hearty,  and  informed 
with  a manly  and  sincere  understanding  of  life. 
Never  was  an  artist’s  inner  nature  in  more  direct 
conformity  with  his  work.  There  were  no  circumlo- 


32  CHAVANNES,  MILLET,  AND  MANET 


cutions  in  Manet’s  nature,  there  were  none  in  his 
art. 

The  colour  of  my  hair  never  gave  me  a thought 
until  Manet  began  to  paint  it.  Then  the  blonde 
gold  that  came  up  under  his  brush  filled  me  with 
admiration,  and  I was  astonished  when,  a few  days 
after,  I saw  him  scrape  off  the  rough  paint  and 
prepare  to  start  afresh. 

“Are  you  going  to  get  a new  canvas?” 

“ No ; this  will  do  very  well.” 

“ But  you  can’t  paint  yellow  ochre  on  yellow  ochre 
without  getting  it  dirty  ? ” 

“ Yes,  I think  I can.  You  go  and  sit  down.” 
Half-an-hour  after  he  had  entirely  repainted  the 
hair,  and  without  losing  anything  of  its  brightness. 
He  painted  it  again  and  again ; every  time  it  came 
out  brighter  and  fresher,  and  the  painting  never 
seemed  to  lose  anything  in  quality.  That  this 
portrait  cost  him  infinite  labour  and  was  eventually 
destroyed  matters  nothing ; my  point  is  merely  that 
he  could  paint  yellow  over  yellow  without  getting 
the  colour  muddy.  One  day,  seeing  that  I was  in 
difficulties  with  a black,  he  took  a brush  from  my 
hand,  and  it  seemed  to  have  hardly  touched  the 
canvas  when  the  ugly  heaviness  of  my  tiresome  black 
began  to  disappear.  There  came  into  it  grey  and 
shimmering  lights,  the  shadows  filled  up  with  air, 
and  silk  seemed  to  float  and  rustle.  There  was  no 
method — there  was  no  trick;  he  merely  painted. 
My  palette  was  the  same  to  him  as  his  own ; he  did 
not  prepare  his  palette ; his  colour  did  not  exist  on 
his  palette  before  he  put  it  on  the  canvas ; but  working 


CHA  VANNES,  MILLET,  AND  MANET  33 

under  the  immediate  dictation  of  his  eye,  he  snatched 
the  tints  instinctively,  without  premeditation.  Ah ! 
that  marvellous  hand,  those  thick  fingers  holding  the 
brush  so  firmly — somewhat  heavily;  how  malleable, 
how  obedient,  that  most  rebellious  material,  oil-colour, 
was  to  his  touch.  He  did  with  it  what  he  liked.  I 
believe  he  could  rub  a picture  over  with  Prussian 
blue  without  experiencing  any  inconvenience;  half- 
an-hour  after  the  colour  would  be  fine  and  beautiful. 

And  never  did  this  mysterious  power  which  pro- 
duces what  artists  know  as  “ quality  ” exist  in  greater 
abundance  in  any  fingers  than  it  did  in  the  slow, 
thick  fingers  of  Edouard  Manet : never  since  the 
world  began ; not  in  Velasquez,  not  in  Hals,  not  in 
Rubens,  not  in  Titian.  As  an  artist  Manet  could 
not  compare  with  the  least  among  these  illustrious 
painters ; but  as  a manipulator  of  oil-colour  he  never 
was  and  never  will  be  excelled.  Manet  was  born  a 
painter  as  absolutely  as  any  man  that  ever  lived,  so 
absolutely  that  a very  high  and  lucid  intelligence 
never  for  a moment  came  between  him  and  the 
desire  to  put  anything  into  his  picture  except  good 
painting.  I remember  his  saying  to  me,  “ I also  tried 
to  write,  but  I did  not  succeed ; I never  could  do 
anything  but  paint.”  And  what  a splendid  thing  for 
an  artist  to  be  able  to  say.  The  real  meaning  of  his 
words  did  not  reach  me  till  years  after;  perhaps  I 
even  thought  at  the  time  that  he  was  disappointed 
that  he  could  not  write.  I know  now  what  was 
passing  in  his  mind : Je  ne  me  suis  pas  trompe  de 
metier . How  many  of  us  can  say  as  much  ? Go 
round  a picture  gallery,  and  of  how  many  pictures, 

3 


34  CHAVANNES,  MILLET,  AND  MANET. 


ancient  or  modern,  can  you  stand  before  and  say, 
Voila  un  homme  qui  ne  lest  pas  trompe  de  metier  ? 

Perhaps  above  all  men  of  our  generation  Manet 
made  the  least  mistake  in  his  choice  of  a trade.  Let 
those  who  doubt  go  and  look  at  the  beautiful  picture 
of  Boulogne  Pier,  now  on  view  in  Mr.  Van  Wesse- 
lingh’s  gallery,  26  Old  Bond  Street.  The  wooden 
pier  goes  right  across  the  canvas  ; all  the  wood  piers 
are  drawn,  there  is  no  attempt  to  hide  or  attenuate 
their  regularity.  Why  should  Manet  attenuate  when 
he  could  fill  the  interspaces  with  the  soft  lapping  of 
such  exquisite  blue  sea-water.  Above  the  piers  there 
is  the  ugly  yellow-painted  rail.  But  why  alter  the 
colour  when  he  could  keep  it  in  such  exquisite  value  ? 
On  the  canvas  it  is  beautiful.  In  the  middle  of  the 
pier  there  is  a mast  and  a sail  which  does  duty  for 
an  awning;  perhaps  it  is  only  a marine  decoration. 
A few  loungers  are  on  the  pier — men  and  women  in 
grey  clothes.  Why  introduce  reds  and  blues  when 
he  was  sure  of  being  able  to  set  the  little  figures  in 
their  places,  to  draw  them  so  firmly,  and  relieve  the 
grey  monotony  with  such  beauty  of  execution?  It 
would  be  vain  to  invent  when  so  exquisite  an  execu- 
tion is  always  at  hand  to  relieve  and  to  transform. 
Mr.  Whistler  would  have  chosen  to  look  at  the  pier 
from  a more  fanciful  point  of  view.  Degas  would 
have  taken  an  odd  corner;  he  would  have  cut 
the  composition  strangely,  and  commented  on  the 
humanity  of  the  pier.  But  Manet  just  painted  it 
without  circumlocutions  of  any  kind.  The  subject 
was  void  of  pictorial  relief.  There  was  not  even  a 
blue  space  in  the  sky,  nor  yet  a dark  cloud.  He 


CHA  VANNES,  MILLET,  AND  MANET.  35 

took  it  as  it  was — a white  sky,  full  of  an  inner 
radiance,  two  sailing-boats  floating  in  mist  of  heat, 
one  in  shadow,  the  other  in  light.  Vandervelde  would 
seem  trivial  and  precious  beside  painting  so  firm,  so 
manly,  so  free  from  trick,  so  beautifully  logical,  and 
so  unerring. 

Manet  did  not  often  paint  sea-pieces.  He  is  best 
known  and  is  most  admired  as  a portrait-painter,  but 
from  time  to  time  he  ventured  to  trust  his  painting 
to  every  kind  of  subject — I know  even  a cattle-piece 
by  Manet — and  his  Christ  watched  over  by  angels 
in  the  tomb  is  one  of  his  finest  works.  His  Christ 
is  merely  a rather  fat  model  sitting  with  his  back 
against  a wall,  and  two  women  with  wings  on  either 
side  of  him.  There  is  no  attempt  to  suggest  a 
Divine  death  or  to  express  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven 
on  the  angels'  faces.  But  the  legs  of  the  man  are 
as  fine  a piece  of  painting  as  has  ever  been  accom- 
plished. 

In  an  exhibition  of  portraits  now  open  in  Paris, 
entitled  Cent  Chefs-TCEuvre , Manet  has  been  paid 
the  highest  honour ; he  himself  would  not  demand  a 
greater  honour — his  “ Bon  Bock  ” has  been  hung  next 
to  a celebrated  portrait  by  Hals.  . . . 

Without  seeing  it,  I know  that  the  Hals  is 
nobler,  grander ; I know,  supposing  the  Hals  to  be 
a good  one,  that  its  flight  is  that  of  an  eagle  as 
compared  with  the  flight  of  a hawk.  The  comparison 
is  exaggerated;  but,  then,  so  are  all  comparisons. 
I also  know  that  Hals  does  not  tell  us  more  about 
his  old  woman  than  Manet  tells  us  about  the  man 
who  sits  so  gravely  by  his  glass  of  foaming  ale,  so 


36  CHA  VANNESy  MILLET,  AND  MANET 


clearly  absorbed  by  it,  so  oblivious  to  all  other  joys 
but  those  that  it  brings  him.  Hals  never  placed  any 
one  more  clearly  in  his  favourite  hour  of  the  day,  the 
well-desired  hour,  looked  forward  to  perhaps  since  the 
beginning  of  the  afternoon.  In  this  marvellous  portrait 
we  read  the  age,  the  rank,  the  habits,  the  limitations, 
physical  and  mental,  of  the  broad-faced  man  who  sits 
so  stolidly,  his  fat  hand  clasping  his  glass  of  foaming 
ale.  Nothing  has  been  omitted.  We  look  at  the 
picture,  and  the  man  and  his  environment  become 
part  of  our  perception  of  life.  That  stout,  middle- 
aged  man  of  fifty,  who  works  all  day  in  some  small 
business,  and  goes  every  evening  to  his  caf 6 to  drink 
beer,  will  abide  with  us  for  ever.  His  appearance,  and 
his  mode  of  life,  which  his  appearance  so  admirably 
expresses,  can  never  become  completely  dissociated 
from  our  understanding  of  life.  For  Manet’s  “Bon 
Bock  ” is  one  of  the  eternal  types,  a permanent 
national  conception,  as  inherent  in  French  life  as 
Polichinelle,  Pierrot,  Monsieur  Prud’homme,  or  the 
Baron  Hulot.  I have  not  seen  the  portrait  for  fifteen 
or  eighteen  years,  and  yet  I see  it  as  well  as  if 
it  were  hung  on  the  wall  opposite  the  table  on  which 
I am  writing  this  page.  I can  see  that  round,  flat 
face,  a little  swollen  with  beer,  the  small  eyes,  the 
spare  beard  and  moustaches.  His  feet  are  not  in  the 
picture,  but  I know  how  much  he  pays  for  his  boots, 
and  how  they  fit  him.  Nor  did  Hals  ever  paint 
better ; I mean  that  nowhere  in  Hals  will  you  find 
finer  handling,  or  a more  direct  luminous  or  simple 
expression  of  what  the  eye  saw.  It  has  all  the 
qualities  I have  enumerated,  and  yet  it  falls  short  of 


CHAVANNES,  MILLET,  AND  MANET.  37 


Hals.  It  has  not  the  breadth  and  scope  of  the  great 
Dutchman.  There  is  a sense  of  effort,  on  sent  le 
souffle,  and  in  Hals  one  never  does.  It  is  more 
bound  together,  it  does  not  flow  with  the  mighty  and 
luminous  ease  of  the  chefs  d' oeuvre  at  Haarlem. 

But  is  this  Manet’s  final  achievement,  the  last 
word  he  has  to  say?  I think  not.  It  was  painted 
early  in  the  sixties,  probably  about  the  same  period 
as  the  Luxembourg  picture,  when  the  effects  of  his 
Spanish  travel  were  wearing  off,  and  Paris  was  begin- 
ning to  command  his  art.  Manet  used  to  say,  “ When 
Degas  was  painting  Semiramis  I was  painting  modern 
Paris.”  It  would  have  been  more  true  to  have  said 
modern  Spain.  For  it  was  in  Spain  that  Manet 
found  his  inspiration.  He  had  not  been  to  Holland 
when  he  painted  his  Spanish  pictures.  Velasquez 
clearly  inspired  them;  but  there  never  was  in  his 
work  any  of  the  noble  delicacies  of  the  Spaniard; 
it  was  always  nearer  to  the  plainer  and  more — forgive 
the  phrase — yokel-like  eloquence  of  Hals.  The  art 
of  Hals  he  seemed  to  have  divined;  it  seems  to  have 
come  instinctively  to  him. 

Manet  went  to  Spain  after  a few  months  spent  in 
Couture’s  studio.  Like  all  the  great  artists  of  our 
time,  he  was  self-educated — Whistler,  Degas,  Courbet, 
Corot,  and  Manet  wasted  little  time  in  other  men’s 
studios.  Soon  after  his  return  from  Spain,  by 
some  piece  of  good  luck,  Manet  was  awarded  une 
mention  honorable  at  the  Salon  for  his  portrait  of  a 
toreador.  Why  this  honour  was  conferred  upon 
him  it  is  difficult  to  guess.  It  must  have  been  the 
result  of  some  special  influence  exerted  at  a special 


38  CHA  VANNES,  MILLET,  AND  MANET 


moment,  for  ever  after — down  to  the  year  of  his  death 
— his  pictures  were  considered  as  an  excrescence  on 
the  annual  exhibitions  at  the  Salon.  Every  year — 
down  to  the  year  of  his  death — the  jury,  M.  Bouguereau 
et  Cie.,  lamented  that  they  were  powerless  to  reject 
these  ridiculous  pictures.  Manet  had  been  placed  hors 
concours , and  they  could  do  nothing.  They  could 
do  nothing  except  stand  before  his  pictures  and  laugh. 
Oh,  I remember  it  all  very  well.  We  were  taught  at 
the  Beaux-Arts  to  consider  Manet  an  absurd  person 
or  else  an  epateur , who,  not  being  able  to  paint  like  M. 
Gerome,  determined  to  astonish.  I remember  per- 
fectly well  the  derision  with  which  those  chefs  I oeuvre, 
“ Yachting  at  Argenteuil  99  and  “ Le  Linge,”  were 
received.  They  were  in  his  last  style — that  bright, 
clear  painting  in  which  violet  shadows  were  beginning 
to  take  the  place  of  the  conventional  brown  shadows, 
and  the  brush-work,  too,  was  looser  and  more  broken 
up;  in  a word,  these  pictures  were  the  germ  from 
which  has  sprung  a dozen  different  schools,  all  the 
impressionism  and  other  isms  of  modern  French  art. 
Before  these  works,  in  which  the  real  Manet  appeared 
for  the  first  time,  no  one  had  a good  word  to  say. 
To  kill  them  more  effectually,  certain  merits  were 
even  conceded  to  the  “ Bon  Bock  ” and  the  Luxem- 
bourg picture. 

The  “ Bon  Bock,”  as  we  have  seen,  at  once 
challenges  comparison  with  Hals.  But  in  “ Le 
Linge ” no  challenge  is  sent  forth  to  any  one ; it  is 
Manet,  all  Manet,  and  nothing  but  Manet.  In  this 
picture  he  expresses  his  love  of  the  gaiety  and 
pleasure  of  Parisian  life.  And  this  bright-faced, 


CHAVANNES \ MILLET,  AND  MANET  39 

simple-minded  woman,  who  stands  in  a garden 
crowded  with  the  tallest  sunflowers,  the  great  flower- 
crowns  drooping  above  her,  her  blue  cotton  dress 
rolled  up  to  the  elbows,  her  hands  plunged  in  a 
small  wash-tub  in  which  she  is  washing  some  small 
linen,  habit-shirts,  pocket-handkerchiefs,  collars,  ex- 
presses the  joy  of  homely  life  in  the  French 
suburb.  Her  home  is  one  of  good  wine,  excellent 
omelettes,  soft  beds ; and  the  sheets,  if  they  are  a 
little  coarse,  are  spotless,  and  retain  an  odour  of 
lavender-sweetened  cupboards.  Her  little  child, 
about  four  years  old,  is  with  his  mother  in  the 
garden;  he  has  strayed  into  the  foreground  of  the 
picture,  just  in  front  of  the  wash-tub,  and  he  holds 
a great  sunflower  in  his  tiny  hand.  Beside  this 
picture  of  such  bright  and  happy  aspect,  the  most 
perfect  example  of  that  genre  known  as  la  peinture 
claire , invented  by  Manet,  and  so  infamously  and 
absurdly  practised  by  subsequent  imitators — beside 
this  picture  so  limpid,  so  fresh,  so  unaffected  in  its 
handling,  a Courbet  would  seem  heavy  and  dull,  a 
sort  of  mock  old  master;  a Corot  would  seem 
ephemeral  and  cursive ; a Whistler  would  seem  thin ; 
beside  this  picture  of  such  elegant  and  noble  vision 
a Stevens  would  certainly  seem  odiously  common. 
Why  does  not  Liverpool  or  Manchester  buy  one  of 
these  masterpieces?  If  the  blueness  of  the  blouse 
frightens  the  administrators  of  these  galleries,  I will 
ask  them — and  perhaps  this  would  be  the  more 
practical  project  — to  consider  the  purchase  of 
Manet’s  first  and  last  historical  picture,  the  death 


4o  CHA  VANNESy  MILLET,  AND  MANET 


of  the  unfortunate  Maximilian  in  Mexico.  Under 
a high  wall,  over  which  some  Mexicans  are  look- 
ing, Maximilian  and  two  friends  stand  in  front  of 
the  rifles.  The  men  have  just  fired,  and  death 
clouds  the  unfortunate  face.  On  the  right  a man 
stands  cocking  his  rifle.  Look  at  the  movement 
of  the  hand,  how  well  it  draws  back  the  hammer. 
The  face  is  nearly  in  profile — how  intent  it  is  on 
the  mechanism.  And  is  not  the  drawing  of  the 
legs,  the  boots,  the  gaiters,  the  arms  lifting  the 
heavy  rifle  with  slow  deliberation,  more  massive, 
firm,  and  concise  than  any  modern  drawing?  How 
ample  and  how  exempt  from  all  trick,  and  how  well 
it  says  just  what  the  painter  wanted  to  say!  This 
picture,  too,  used  to  hang  in  his  studio.  But  the 
greater  attractiveness  of  “ Le  Linge  ” prevented  me 
from  discerning  its  more  solemn  beauty.  But  last 
May  I came  across  it  unexpectedly,  and  after  looking 
at  it  for  some  time  the  thought  that  came  was — no 
one  painted  better,  no  one  will  ever  paint  better. 

The  Luxembourg  picture,  although  one  of  the  most 
showy  and  the  completest  amongst  Manet’s  master- 
pieces, is  not,  in  my  opinion,  either  the  most  charming 
or  the  most  interesting;  and  yet  it  would  be  difficult  to 
say  that  this  of  the  many  life-sized  nudes  that  France 
has  produced  during  the  century  is  not  the  one  we 
could  least  easily  spare.  Ingres’  Source  compares 
not  with  things  of  this  century,  but  with  the  marbles 
of  the  fourth  century  b.c.  Cabanel’s  Venus  is  a 
beautiful  design,  but  its  destruction  would  create  no 
appreciable  gap  in  the  history  of  nineteenth  century 
art.  The  destruction  of  “ Olympe  ” would 


CHA  VANNES,  MILLET,  AND  MANET  41 

The  picture  is  remarkable  not  only  for  the  excellence 
of  the  execution,  but  for  a symbolic  intention 
nowhere  else  to  be  found  in  Manet's  works.  The 
angels  on  either  side  of  his  dead  Christ  necessi- 
tated merely  the  addition  of  two  pairs  of  wings — a 
convention  which  troubled  him  no  more  than  the 
convention  of  taking  off  his  hat  on  entering  a church. 
But  in  “ Olympe  ” we  find  Manet  departing  from  the 
individual  to  the  universal.  The  red-headed  woman 
who  used  to  dine  at  the  Ratmort  does  not  lie  on  a 
modern  bed  but  on  the  couch  of  all  time ; and  she 
raises  herself  from  amongst  her  cushions,  setting  forth 
her  somewhat  meagre  nudity  as  arrogantly  and  with 
the  same  calm  certitude  of  her  sovereignty  as  the 
eternal  Venus  for  whose  prey  is  the  flesh  of  all  men 
born.  The  introduction  of  a bouquet  bound  up  in 
large  white  paper  does  not  prejudice  the  symbolic 
intention,  and  the  picture  would  do  well  for  an  illus- 
tration to  some  poem  to  be  found  in  “ Les  fleurs  du 
Mall  It  may  be  worth  while  to  note  here  that 
Baudelaire  printed  in  his  volume  a quatrain  inspired 
by  one  of  Manet's  Spanish  pictures. 

But  after  this  slight  adventure  into  symbolism, 
Manet’s  eyes  were  closed  to  all  but  the  visible  world. 
The  visible  world  of  Paris  he  saw  henceforth — truly, 
frankly,  and  fearlessly,  and  more  beautifully  than  any 
of  his  contemporaries.  Never  before  was  a great  man’s 
mind  so  strictly  limited  to  the  range  of  what  his  eyes 
saw.  Nature  wished  it  so,  and,  having  discovered 
nature's  wish,  Manet  joined  his  desire  with  Nature's.  I 
remember  his  saying  as  he  showed  me  some  illustrations 
he  had  done  for  Mallarme’s  translation  of  Edgar  Poe’s 


42  CHA  VANNES,  MILLET,  AND  MANET 


poem,  “You’ll  admit  that  it  doesn’t  give  you  much  idea 
‘ of  a kingdom  by  the  sea.’  ” The  drawing  represented 
the  usual  sea-side  watering  place — the  beach  with  a 
nursemaid  at  full  length;  children  building  sand  castles, 
and  some  small  sails  in  the  offing. 

So  Manet  was  content  to  live  by  the  sight,  and  by 
the  sight  alone;  he  was  a painter,  and  had  neither  time 
nor  taste  for  such  ideals  as  Poe’s  magical  Annabel 
Lee.  Marvellous  indeed  must  have  been  the  eyes  that 
could  have  persuaded  such  relinquishment.  How  mar- 
vellous they  were  we  understand  easily  when  we  look 
at  “ Olympe.”  Eyes  that  saw  truly,  that  saw  beauti- 
fully and  yet  somewhat  grossly.  There  is  much  vigour 
in  the  seeing,  there  is  the  exquisite  handling  of  Hals, 
and  there  is  the  placing,  the  setting  forth  of  figures  on 
the  canvas,  which  was  as  instinctively  his  as  it  was 
Titian’s.  Hals  and  Velasquez  possessed  all  those  quali- 
ties, and  something  more.  They  would  not  have  been 
satisfied  with  that  angular,  presumptuous,  and  obvious 
drawing,  harsh  in  its  exterior  limits  and  hollow  within — 
the  head  a sort  of  convulsive  abridgment,  the  hand 
void,  and  the  fingers  too,  if  we  seek  their  articulations. 
An  omission  must  not  be  mistaken  for  a simplifica- 
tion, and  for  all  his  omissions  Manet  strives  to  make 
amend  by  the  tone.  It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine 
a more  beautiful  syntheses  than  that  pale  yellow,  a 
beautiful  golden  sensation,  and  the  black  woman,  the 
attendant  of  this  light  of  love,  who  comes  to  the 
couch  with  a large  bouquet  fresh  from  the  boulevard, 
is  certainly  a piece  of  painting  that  Rubens  and  Titian 
would  stop  to  admire. 

But  when  all  has  been  said,  I prefer  Manet  in 


CHA  VANNES,  MILLET,  AND  MANE T.  43 

the  quieter  and  I think  the  more  original  mood  in 
the  portrait  of  his  sister-in-law,  Madame  Morisot. 
The  portrait  is  in  M.  Duret’s  collection;  it  hangs 
in  a not  too  well  lighted  passage,  and  if  I did  not 
spend  six  or  ten  minutes  in  admiration  before  this 
picture,  I should  feel  that  some  familiar  pleasure  had 
drifted  out  of  my  yearly  visit  to  Paris.  Never  did  a 
white  dress  play  so  important  or  indeed  so  charming 
a part  in  a picture.  The  dress  is  the  picture — this 
common  white  dress,  with  black  spots,  une  robe  a 
foix , une  petite  confection  de  soixante  cinq  francs,  as 
the  French  would  say;  and  very  far  it  is  from  all 
remembrance  of  the  diaphanous,  fairy-like  skirts  of 
our  eighteenth  century  English  school,  but  I swear  to 
you  no  less  charming.  It  is  a very  simple  and  yet  a 
very  beautiful  reality.  A lady,  in  white  dress  with  black 
spots,  sitting  on  a red  sofa,  a dark  chocolate  red,  in 
the  subdued  light  of  her  own  quiet,  prosaic  French 
appartment,  le  deuxime  au  dessus  Ventre-sol . The 

drawing  is  less  angular,  less  constipated  than  that  ot 
“ Olympe.”  How  well  the  woman’s  body  is  in  the 
dress ! there  is  the  bosom,  the  waist,  the  hips,  the 
knees,  and  the  white  stockinged  foot  in  the  low  shoe, 
coming  from  out  the  dress.  The  drawing  about  the 
hips  and  bosom  undulates  and  floats,  vague  and  yet 
precise,  in  a manner  that  recalls  Harlem,  and  it  is 
not  until  we  turn  to  the  face  that  we  come  upon 
ominous  spaces  unaccounted  for,  forms  unexplained. 
The  head  is  so  charming  that  it  seems  a pity  to  press 
our  examination  further.  But  to  understand  Manet’s 
deficiency  is  to  understand  the  abyss  that  separates 
modern  from  ancient  art,  and  the  portrait  of  Madame 


44  CHA  VANNESy  MILLET,  AND  MANET. 


Morisot  explains  them  as  well  as  another,  for  the 
deficiency  I wish  to  point  out  exists  in  Manet’s  best 
portraits  as  well  as  in  his  worst.  The  face  in  this 
picture  is  like  the  face  in  every  picture  by  Manet. 
Three  or  four  points  are  seized,  and  the  spaces 
between  are  left  unaccounted  for.  Whistler  has  not 
the  strength  of  Velasquez;  Manet  is  not  as  complete 
as  Hals. 


THE  FAILURE  OF  THE  NINETEENTH 
CENTURY. 

In  the  seventeenth  century  were  Poussin  and 
Claude ; in  the  eighteenth  Watteau,  Boucher, 
Chardin,  and  many  lesser  lights — Fragonard,  Pater, 
and  Lancret.  But  notwithstanding  the  austere 
grandeur  of  Poussin  and  the  beautiful,  if  somewhat 
too  reasonable  poetry  of  Claude,  the  infinite  per- 
fection of  Watteau,  the  charm  of  that  small  French 
Velasquez  Chardin,  and  the  fascinations  and  essen- 
tially French  genius  of  all  this  group  (Poussin  and 
Claude  were  entirely  Roman),  I think  we  must  place 
France’s  artistic  period  in  the  nineteenth  century. 

Nineteenth  century  art  began  in  France  in  the  last 
years  of  the  eighteenth  century.  It  began  well,  for  it 
began  with  its  greatest  painters — Ingres,  Corot,  and 
Delacroix.  Ingres  was  born  in  1780,  Gericault  in 
1791,  Corot  in  1796,  Delacroix  in  1798,  Diaz  in  1809, 
Duprd  in  1812,  Rousseau  in  1812,  Jacques  in  1813, 
Meissonier  in  1815,  Millet  in  1815,  Troyon  in  1816, 
Daubigny  in  1817,  Courbet  in  1819,  Fromentin  in 
1820,  Monticelli  in  1824,  Puvis  de  Chavannes  in 
1824,  Cabanel  in  1825,  Hervier  in  1827,  Vollon  in 
1833,  Manet  in  1833,  Degas  in  1834.  With  a 
little  indulgence  the  list  might  be  considerably 
enlarged. 


46 


THE  FAILURE  OF 


The  circumstances  in  which  this  artistic  manifesta- 
tion took  place  were  identical  with  the  circumstances 
which  brought  about  every  one  of  the  great  artistic 
epochs.  It  came  upon  France  as  a consequence  of 
huge  national  aspiration,  when  nationhood  was  desired 
and  disaster  had  joined  men  together  in  struggle, 
and  sent  them  forth  on  reckless  adventure.  It  has 
been  said  that  art  is  decay,  the  pearl  in  the  oyster; 
but  such  belief  seems  at  variance  with  any  reading  of 
history.  The  Greek  sculptors  came  after  Salamis  and 
Marathon ; the  Italian  renaissance  came  when  Italy 
was  distracted  with  revolution  and  was  divided  into 
opposing  states.  Great  empires  have  not  produced 
great  men.  Art  came  upon  Holland  after  heroic 
wars  in  which  the  Dutchmen  vehemently  asserted 
their  nationhood,  defending  their  country  against  the 
Spaniard,  even  to  the  point  of  letting  in  the  sea 
upon  the  invaders.  Art  came  upon  England  when 
England  was  most  adventurous,  after  the  victories  of 
Marlborough.  Art  came  upon  France  after  the  great 
revolution,  after  the  victories  of  Marengo  and  Auster- 
litz,  after  the  burning  of  Moscow.  A unique  moment 
of  nationhood  gave  birth  to  a long  list  of  great  artists, 
just  as  similar  national  enthusiasm  gave  birth  to 
groups  of  great  artists  in  England,  in  Holland,  in 
Florence,  in  Venice,  in  Athens. 

Having  determined  the  century  of  France’s  artistic 
period  we  will  ask  where  we  shall  place  it  amongst 
the  artist  period  of  the  past.  Comparison  with  Greece, 
Italy,  or  Venice  is  manifestly  impossible  ; the  names 
of  Rembrandt,  Hals,  Ruysdael,  Peter  de  Hooeh, 
Terburg,  and  Cuyp  give  us  pause.  We  remember 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY.  47 

the  names  of  Ingres,  Delacroix,  Corot,  Millet,  and 
Degas.  Even  the  divine  name  of  Ingres  cannot  save 
the  balance  from  sinking  on  the  side  of  Holland. 
Then  we  think  of  Reynolds,  Gainsborough,  Romney, 
Wilson,  and  Morland,  and  wonder  how  they  com- 
pare with  the  Frenchmen.  The  best  brains  were 
on  the  French  side,  they  had  more  pictorial  talent, 
and  yet  the  school  when  taken  as  a whole  is  not 
so  convincing  as  the  English.  Why,  with  better 
brains,  and  certainly  more  passion  and  desire  of 
achievement,  does  the  French  school  fall  behind  the 
English?  Why,  notwithstanding  its  extraordinary 
genius,  does  it  come  last  in  merit  as  it  comes  last  in 
time  amongst  the  world's  artistic  epochs?  Has  the 
nineteenth  century  brought  any  new  intention  into 
art  which  did  not  exist  before  in  England,  Holland, 
or  Italy?  Yes,  the  nineteenth  century  has  brought 
a new  intention  into  art,  and  I think  that  it  is 
this  very  new  intention  that  has  caused  the  failure 
of  the  nineteenth  century.  To  explain  myself,  I will 
have  to  go  back  to  first  principles. 

In  the  beginning  the  beauty  of  man  was  the  artist's 
single  theme.  Science  had  not  then  relegated  man 
to  his  exact  place  in  creation : he  reigned  trium- 
phant, Nature  appearing,  if  at  all,  only  as  a kind 
of  aureole.  The  Egyptian,  the  Greek,  and  the 
Roman  artists  saw  nothing,  and  cared  for  nothing, 
except  man;  the  representation  of  his  beauty,  his 
power,  and  his  grandeur  was  their  whole  desire, 
whether  they  carved  or  painted  their  intention,  and 
I may  say  the  result  was  the  same.  The  painting  of 
Apelles  could  not  have  differed  from  the  sculpture 


THE  FAILURE  OF 


48  - 

of  Phidias ; painting  was  not  then  separated  from  her 
elder  sister.  In  the  early  ages  there  was  but  one  art; 
even  in  Michael  Angelo’s  time  the  difference  between 
painting  and  sculpture  was  so  slight  as  to  be  hardly 
worth  considering.  Is  it  possible  to  regard  the 
“ Last  Judgment  ” as  anything  else  but  a coloured 
bas-relief,  more  complete  and  less  perfect  than  the 
Greeks?  Michael  Angelo’s  artistic  outlook  was  the 
same  as  Phidias’.  One  chose  the  “ Last  Judgment  ” 
and  the  other  “ Olympus,”  but  both  subjects  were 
looked  at  from  the  same  point  of  view.  In  each 
instance  the  question  asked  was — what  opportunity 
do  they  afford  for  the  display  of  marvellous  human 
form  ? And  when  Michael  Angelo  carved  the 
“Moses”  and  painted  the  “St.  Jerome”  he  was  as 
deaf  and  blind  as  any  Greek  to  all  other  consideration 
save  the  opulence  and  the  magic  of  drapery,  the 
vehemence  and  the  splendour  of  muscle.  Nearly 
two  thousand  years  had  gone  by  and  the  artistic 
outlook  had  not  changed  at  all ; three  hundred 
years  have  passed  since  Michael  Angelo,  and  in 
those  three  hundred  years  what  revolution  has  not 
been  effected?  How  different  our  aestheticism,  our 
aims,  our  objects,  our  desires,  our  aspiration,  and 
how  different  our  art ! 

After  Michael  Angelo  painting  and  sculpture  became 
separate  arts : sculpture  declined,  and  colour  filled  the 
whole  artistic  horizon.  But  this  change  was  the  only 
change ; the  necessities  of  the  new  medium  had  to  be 
considered;  but  the  Italian  and  Venetian  painters 
continued  to  view  life  and  art  from  the  same  side. 
Michael  Angelo  chose  his  subjects  merely  because 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY.  49 

of  the  opportunities  they  offered  for  the  delineation 
of  form,  Titian,  Tintoretto,  and  Veronese  chose 
theirs  merely  for  the  opportunities  they  offered  for  the 
display  of  colour.  A new  medium  of  expression  had 
been  discovered,  that  was  all.  The  themes  of  their 
pictures  were  taken  from  the  Bible,  if  you  will,  but 
the  scenes  they  represented  with  so  much  pomp  of 
colour  were  seen  by  them  through  the  mystery  of 
legend,  and  the  vision  was  again  sublimated  by  naive 
belief  and  primitive  aspiration. 

The  stories  of  the  Old  and  New  Testaments  were 
not  anecdotes ; faith  and  ignorance  had  raised  them 
above  the  anecdote,  and  they  had  become  epics, 
whether  by  intensity  of  religious  belief — as  in  the 
case  of  the  monk  of  Fiesole — or  by  being  given 
sublime  artistic  form — for  paganism  was  not  yet  dead 
in  the  world — witness  Leonardo,  Raphael,  and  Andrea 
del  Sarto.  To  these  painters  Biblical  subjects  were  a 
mere  pretext  for  representing  man  in  all  his  attri- 
butes ; and  when  the  same  subjects  were  treated  by 
the  Venetians,  they  were  transformed  in  a pomp  of 
colour,  and  by  an  absence  of  all  true  colour  and  by 
contempt  for  history  and  chronology  became  epical 
and  fantastical.  It  is  only  necessary  to  examine  any 
one  of  the  works  of  the  great  Venetians  to  see 
that  they  bestowed  hardly  a thought  on  the  subject  of 
their  pictures.  When  Titian  painted  the  “ Entomb- 
ment of  Christ,”  what  did  he  see?  A contrast — a 
white  body,  livid  and  dead,  carried  by  full-blooded, 
red-haired  Italians,  who  wept,  and  whose  sorrow  only 
served  to  make  them  more  beautiful.  That  is  how 
he  understood  a subject.  The  desire  to  be  truthful 

4 


5° 


THE  FAILURE  OF 


was  not  very  great,  nor  was  the  desire  to  be  new 
much  more  marked ; to  be  beautiful  was  the  first  and 
last  letter  of  a creed  of  which  we  know  very  little 
to-day. 

Art  died  in  Italy,  and  the  subject  had  not  yet 
appeared ; and  at  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century  the 
first  painters  of  the  great  Dutch  school  were  born,  and 
before  1650  a new  school,  entirely  original,  having 
nothing  in  common  with  anything  that  had  gone 
before,  had  formulated  its  aestheticism  and  produced 
masterpieces.  In  these  masterpieces  we  find  no  sus- 
picion of  anything  that  might  be  called  a subject ; the 
absence  of  subject  is  even  more  conspicuous  in  the 
Dutchmen  than  in  the  Italians.  In  the  Italian  painters 
the  subject  passed  unperceived  in  a pomp  of  colour 
or  a Pagan  apotheosis  of  humanity ; in  the  Dutch- 
men it  is  dispensed  with  altogether.  No  longer  do 
we  read  of  miracles  or  martyrdoms,  but  of  the  most 
ordinary  incidents  of  everyday  life.  Turning  over  the 
first  catalogue  to  hand  of  Dutch  pictures,  I read : 
“ View  of  a Plain,  with  shepherd,  cows,  and  sheep  in 
the  foreground ; ” “ The  White  Horse  in  the  Riding 
School ; ” “A  Lady  Playing  the  Virginal ; ” “ Peasants 
Drinking  Outside  a Tavern;”  “Peasants  Drinking  in 
a Tavern  ; ” “Peasants  Gambling  Outside  a Tavern;” 
“ Brick-making  in  a Landscape ; ” “ The  Wind-mill;  ” 
“The  Water-mill;”  “Peasants  Bringing  Home  the 
Hay.”  And  so  on,  and  so  on.  If  we  meet  with  a 
military  skirmish,  we  are  not  told  where  the  skirmish 
took  place,  nor  what  troops  took  part  in  the  skirmish. 
“A  Skirmish  in  a Rocky  Pass  ” is  all  the  information 
that  is  vouchsafed  to  us.  Italian  art  is  invention  from 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY.  51 

end  to  end,  in  Dutch  art  no  slightest  trace  of  inven- 
tion is  to  be  found;  one  art  is  purely  imaginative, 
the  other  is  plainly  realistic ; and  yet,  at  an  essential 
point,  the  two  arts  coincide ; in  neither  does  the 
subject  prevail ; and  if  Dutch  art  is  more  truthful 
than  Italian  art,  it  is  because  they  were  unimaginative, 
stay-at-home  folk,  whose  feet  did  not  burn  for  foreign 
travel,  and  whose  only  resource  was,  therefore,  to 
reproduce  the  life  around  them,  and  into  that  no 
element  of  curiosity  could  come.  For  their  whole 
country  was  known  to  them ; even  when  they  left 
their  native  town  they  still  continued  to  paint  what 
they  had  seen  since  they  were  little  children. 

And,  like  Italian,  Dutch  art  died  before  the  subject 
had  appeared.  It  was  not  until  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  century  that  the  subject  really  began  to 
make  itself  felt,  and,  like  the  potato  blight  or  phyl- 
loxera, it  soon  became  clear  that  it  had  come  to  stay. 
I think  Greuze  was  the  first  to  conceive  a picture 
after  the  fashion  of  a scene  in  a play — I mean  those 
domestic  dramas  which  he  invented,  and  in  which 
the  interest  of  the  subject  so  clearly  predominates — 
“The  Prodigal  Son,”  for  instance.  In  this  picture 
we  have  the  domestic  drama  exactly  as  a stage 
manager  would  set  it  forth.  The  indignant  father, 
rising  from  table,  prepares  to  anathematise  the 
repentant  son,  who  stands  on  the  threshold,  the 
weeping  mother  begs  forgiveness  for  her  son,  the 
elder  girl  advances  shyly,  the  younger  children  play 
with  their  toys,  and  the  serving-girl  drops  the  plate 
of  meat  which  she  is  bringing  in.  And  ever  since 
the  subject  has  taken  first  place  in  the  art  of  France, 


52 


THE  FAILURE  OF 


England,  and  Germany,  and  in  like  measure  as  the 
subject  made  itself  felt,  so  did  art  decline. 

For  the  last  hundred  years  painters  seem  to  have 
lived  in  libraries  rather  than  in  studios.  All  litera- 
tures and  all  the  sciences  have  been  pressed  into  the 
service  of  painting,  and  an  Academy  catalogue  is  in 
itself  a liberal  education.  In  it  you  can  read  choice 
extracts  from  the  Bible,  from  Shakespeare,  from 
Goethe,  from  Dante.  You  can  dip  into  Greek  and 
Latin  literature,  history — ancient  and  modern — you 
can  learn  something  of  all  mythologies — Pagan, 
Christian,  and  Hindoo;  if  your  taste  lies  in  the 
direction  of  Icelandic  legends,  you  will  not  be  dis- 
appointed in  your  sixpennyworth.  For  the  last 
hundred  years  the  painter  seems  to  have  neglected 
nothing  except  to  learn  how  to  paint. 

For  more  than  a hundred  years  painting  has  been 
in  service.  She  has  acted  as  a sort  of  handmaiden  to 
literature,  her  mission  being  to  make  clear  to  the 
casual  and  the  unlettered  what  the  lettered  had  already 
understood  and  enjoyed  in  a more  subtle  and  more 
erudite  form.  But  to  pass  from  the  abstract  to  the 
concrete,  and,  so  far  as  regards  subject,  to  make  my 
meaning  quite  clear  to  every  one,  I cannot  do  better 
than  to  ask  my  readers  to  recall  Mr.  Luke  Fildes’ 
picture  of  “The  Doctor.”  No  better  example  could 
be  selected  of  a picture  in  which  the  subject  is  the 
supreme  interest.  True  that  Mr.  Fildes  has  not  taken 
his  subject  from  novel  or  poem;  in  this  picture  he 
may  have  been  said  to  have  been  his  own  librettist, 
and  perhaps  for  that  very  reason  the  subject  is  the 
one  preponderating  interest  in  the  picture.  He  who 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY.  53 

doubts  if  this  be  so  has  only  to  ask  himself  if  any 
critic  thought  of  pointing  to  any  special  passage  of 
colour  in  this  picture,  of  calling  attention  to  the 
quality  of  the  modelling  or  the  ability  of  the  drawing. 
No ; what  attracted  attention  was  the  story.  Would 
the  child  live  or  die?  Did  that  dear,  good  doctor 
entertain  any  hopes  of  the  poor  little  thing’s  recovery  ? 
And  the  poor  parents,  how  grieved  they  seemed ! 
Perhaps  it  is  their  only  child.  The  picture  is  typical 
of  contemporary  art,  which  is  nearly  all  conceived  in 
the  same  spirit,  and  can  therefore  have  no  enduring 
value.  And  if  by  chance  the  English  artist  does 
occasionally  escape  from  the  vice  of  subject  for  sub- 
ject’s sake,  he  almost  invariably  slips  into  what  I may 
called  the  derivative  vices — exactness  of  costume,  truth 
of  effect  and  local  colour.  To  explain  myself  on  this 
point,  I will  ask  the  reader  to  recall  any  one  of  Mr. 
Alma  Tadema’s  pictures ; it  matters  not  a jot  which 
is  chosen.  That  one,  for  instance,  where,  in  a 
circular  recess  of  white  marble,  Sappho  reads  to  a 
Greek  poet,  or  is  it  the  young  man  who  is  reading 
to  Sappho  and  her  maidens  ? The  interest  of 
the  picture  is  purely  archaeological.  According  to 
the  very  latest  researches,  the  ornament  which 
Greek  women  wore  in  their  hair  was  of  such  a 
shape,  and  Mr.  Tadema  has  reproduced  the  shape 
in  his  picture.  Further  researches  are  made,  and  it 
is  discovered  that  that  ornament  was  not  worn  until 
a hundred  years  later.  The  picture  is  therefore 
deprived  of  some  of  its  interest,  and  the  researches 
of  the  next  ten  years  may  make  it  appear  as  old- 
fashioned  as  the  Greek  pictures  of  the  last  two  genera- 


54 


THE  FAILURE  OF 


tions  appear  in  our  eyes  to-day.  Until  then  it  is  as 
interesting  as  a page  of  Smith’s  Classical  Dictionary . 
We  look  at  it  and  we  say,  “ How  curious ! And 
that  was  how  the  Greeks  washed  and  dressed  them- 
selves ! ” 

When  Mr.  Holman  Hunt  conceived  the  idea  of  a 
picture  of  Christ  earning  His  livelihood  by  the  sweat 
of  His  brow,  it  seemed  to  him  to  be  quite  necessary 
to  go  to  Jerusalem.  There  he  copied  a carpenter’s 
shop  from  nature,  and  he  filled  it  with  Arab  tools 
and  implements,  feeling  sure  that,  the  manners  and 
customs  having  changed  but  little  in  the  East,  it  was 
to  be  surmised  that  such  tools  and  implements  must 
be  nearly  identical  with  those  used  eighteen  centuries 
ago.  To  dress  the  Virgin  in  sumptuous  flowing  robes, 
as  Raphael  did,  was  clearly  incorrect ; the  Virgin 
was  a poor  woman,  and  could  not  have  worn  more 
than  a single  garment,  and  the  garment  she  wore 
probably  resembled  the  dress  of  the  Arab  women  of 
the  present  day,  and  so  on  and  so  on.  Through 
the  window  we  see  the  very  landscape  that  Christ 
looked  upon.  From  the  point  of  view  of  the 
art  critic  of  the  Daily  Telegraph  nothing  could  be 
better ; the  various  sites  and  prospects  are  explained 
and  commented  upon,  and  the  heart  of  middle-class 
England  beats  in  sympathetic  response.  But  the 
real  picture-lover  sees  nothing  save  two  geometrically 
drawn  figures  placed  in  the  canvas  like  diagrams  in 
a book  of  Euclid.  And  the  picture  being  barren  of 
artistic  interest,  his  attention  is  caught  by  the  Virgin’s 
costume,  and  the  catalogue  informs  him  that  Mr. 
Hunt’s  model  was  an  Arab  woman  in  Jerusalem, 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY.  55 


whose  dress  in  all  probability  resembled  the  dress 
the  Virgin  wore  two  thousand  years  ago.  The  car- 
penter’s shop  he  is  assured  is  most  probably  an  exact 
counterpart  of  the  carpenter’s  shop  in  which  Christ 
worked.  How  very  curious  ! how  very  curious  ! 

Curiosity  in  art  has  always  been  a corruptive 
influence,  and  the  art  of  our  century  is  literally 
putrid  with  curiosity.  Perhaps  the  desire  of  home 
was  never  so  fixed  and  so  real  in  any  race  as  some 
would  have  us  believe.  At  all  times  there  have  been 
men  whose  feet  itched  for  travel ; even  in  Holland, 
the  country  above  all  others  which  gave  currency  to 
the  belief  in  the  stay-at-home  instinct,  there  were 
always  adventurous  spirits  who  yearned  for  strange 
skies  and  lands.  It  was  this  desire  of  travel  that 
destroyed  the  art  of  Holland  in  the  seventeenth 
century.  I can  hardly  imagine  an  article  that  would 
be  more  instructive  and  valuable  than  one  dealing 
precisely  with  those  Dutchmen  who  went  to  Italy  in 
quest  of  romance,  poetry,  and  general  artistic  culture, 
for  travel  has  often  had  an  injurious  effect  on  art. 
I do  not  say  foreign  travel,  I say  any  travel.  The 
length  of  the  journey  counts  for  nothing,  once  the 
painter’s  inspiration  springs  from  the  novelty  of  the 
colour,  or  the  character  of  the  landscape,  or  the 
interest  that  a strange  costume  suggests.  There  are 
painters  who  have  never  been  further  than  Maiden- 
head, and  who  bring  back  what  I should  call  notes 
de  voyage;  there  are  others  who  have  travelled  round 
the  world  and  have  produced  general  aspects  bearing 
neither  stamp  nor  certificate  of  mileage — in  other 
words,  pictures.  There  are,  therefore,  two  men  who 


56 


THE  FAILURE  OF 


must  not  be  confused  one  with  the  other,  the  traveller 
that  paints  and  the  painter  that  travels. 

Every  day  we  hear  of  a painter  who  has  been  to 
Norway,  or  to  Brittany,  or  to  Wales,  or  to  Algeria, 
and  has  come  back  with  sixty-five  sketches,  which 
are  now  on  view,  let  us  say,  at  Messrs.  Dowdeswell’s 
Galleries,  in  New  Bond  Street,  the  home  of  all  such 
exhibitions.  The  painter  has  been  impressed  by  the 
savagery  of  fiords,  by  the  prettiness  of  blouses  and 
sabots,  by  the  blue  mountain  in  the  distance  and  the 
purple  mountain  in  the  foreground,  by  the  narrow 
shade  of  the  street,  and  the  solemnity  of  a burnous 
or  the  grace  of  a haik  floating  in  the  wind.  The 
painter  brings  back  these  sights  and  scenes  as  a child 
brings  back  shells  from  the  shore — they  seemed  very 
strange  and  curious,  and,  therefore,  like  the  child, 
he  brought  back,  not  the  things  themselves,  but  the 
next  best  things,  the  most  faithful  sketches  he  could 
make  of  them.  To  understand  how  impossible  it  is 
to  paint  pictures  in  a foreign  country,  we  have  only  to 
imagine  a young  English  painter  setting  up  his  easel 
in,  let  us  say,  Algeria.  There  he  finds  himself  con- 
fronted with  a new  world ; everything  is  different : the 
costumes  are  strange,  the  rhythm  of  the  lines  is 
different,  the  effects  are  harsh  and  unknown  to  him; 
at  home  the  earth  is  dark  and  the  sky  is  light,  in 
Algeria  the  everlasting  blue  must  be  darker  than  the 
white  earth,  and  the  key  of  colour  widely  different 
from  anything  he  has  seen  before.  Selection  is 
impossible,  he  cannot  distinguish  between  the  import- 
ant and  the  unimportant ; everything  strikes  him 
with  equal  vividness.  To  change  anything  of  this 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY.  57 

country,  so  clear,  so  precise,  so  characteristic,  is 
to  soften ; to  alleviate  what  is  too  rude,  is  to  weaken ; 
to  generalise,  is  to  disfigure.  So  the  artist  is  obliged 
to  take  Algiers  in  the  lump;  in  spite  of  himself  he 
will  find  himself  forced  into  a scrupulous  exactitude, 
nothing  must  be  passed  over,  and  so  his  pictures  are 
at  best  only  the  truth,  photographic  truth  and  the 
naturalness  of  a fac-simile. 

The  sixty-five  drawings  which  the  painter  will  bring 
back  and  will  exhibit  in  Messrs.  Dowdeswell’s  will 
be  documentary  evidence  of  the  existence  of  Algeria 
— of  all  that  makes  a country  itself,  of  exactly  the 
things  by  which  those  who  have  been  there  know  it, 
of  the  things  which  will  make  it  known  to  those  who 
have  not  been  there,  the  exact  type  of  the  inhabi- 
tants, their  costume,  their  attitudes,  their  ways,  and 
manner  of  living.  Once  the  painter  accepts  truth  for 
aim  and  end,  it  becomes  impossible  to  set  a limit 
upon  his  investigations.  We  shall  learn  how  this 
people  dress,  ride,  and  hunt;  we  shall  learn  what 
arms  they  use — the  painter  will  describe  them  as 
well  as  a pencil  may  describe — the  harness  of  the 
horses  he  must  know  and  understand ; through 
dealing  with  so  much  novelty  it  becomes  obliga- 
tory for  the  travelling  painter  to  become  ex- 
planatory and  categorical.  And  as  the  attraction 
of  the  unknown  corresponds  in  most  people  to  the 
immoral  instinct  of  curiosity,  the  painter  will  find 
himself  forced  to  attempt  to  do  with  paint  and  canvas 
what  he  could  do  much  better  in  a written  account. 
His  public  will  demand  pictures  composed  after  the 
manner  of  an  inventory,  and  the  taste  for  ethno- 


58  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  FAILURE. 


graphy  will  end  by  being  confused  with  the  sentiment 
of  beauty. 

Amongst  this  collection  of  documents  which  causes 
the  Gallery  to  resound  with  foolish  and  vapid  chatter 
there  are  two  small  pictures.  Every  one  has  passed 
by  them,  but  now  an  artist  is  examining  them, 
and  they  are  evidently  the  only  two  things  in 
the  exhibition  that  interest  him.  One  is  entitled 
“Sunset  on  the  Nile,”  an  impression  of  the  melan- 
choly of  evening;  the  other  is  entitled  “ Pilgrims,”  a 
band  of  travellers  passing  up  a sandy  tract,  an  impres- 
sion of  hot  desert  solitudes. 

And  now  I will  conclude  with  an  anecdote  taken 
from  one  to  whom  I owe  much.  Two  painters  were 
painting  on  the  banks  of  the  Seine.  Suddenly  a 
shepherd  passed  driving  before  him  a long  flock  of 
sheep,  silhouetting  with  supple  movement  upon  the 
water  whitening  under  a grey  sky  at  the  end  of 
April.  The  shepherd  had  his  scrip  on  his  back,  he 
wore  the  great  felt  hat  and  the  gaiters  of  the  herds- 
man, two  black  dogs,  picturesque  in  form,  trotted  at 
his  heels,  for  the  flock  was  going  in  excellent  order. 
“ Do  you  know,”  cried  one  painter  to  the  other, 
“that  nothing  is  more  interesting  to  paint  than  a 
shepherd  on  the  banks  of  a river  He  did  not  say 
the  Seine— he  said  a river. 


ARTISTIC  EDUCATION  IN  FRANCE  AND 
ENGLAND. 


Is  the  introduction  of  the  subject  into  art  the  one 
and  only  cause  for  the  defeat  of  the  brilliant  genius 
which  the  Revolution  and  the  victories  of  Napoleon 
called  into  existence  ? Are  there  not  other  modem 
and  special  signs  which  distinguish  the  nineteenth 
century  French  schools  from  all  the  schools  that 
preceded  it  ? I think  there  are. 

Throwing  ourselves  back  in  our  chairs,  let  us 
think  of  this  French  school  in  its  ensemble.  What 
extraordinary  variety ! What  an  absence  of  fixed 
principle ! curiosity,  fever,  impatience,  hurry,  anxiety, 
desire  touching  on  hysteria.  An  enormous  expendi- 
ture of  force,  but  spent  in  so  many  different 
and  contrary  directions,  that  the  sum-total  of  the 
result  seems  a little  less  than  we  had  expected. 
Throwing  ourselves  back  in  our  chairs,  and 
closing  our  eyes  a second  time,  let  us  think  of 
our  eighteenth  century  English  school.  Is  it  not  like 
passing  from  the  glare  and  vicarious  holloaing  of  the 
street  into  a quiet,  grave  assembly  of  well-bred  men, 
who  are  not  afraid  to  let  each  other  speak,  and  know 
how  to  make  themselves  heard  without  shouting;  men 
who  choose  their  words  so  well  that  they  afford  to 
speak  without  emphasis,  and  in  whose  speech  you  find 


6o 


ARTISTIC  EDUCATION 


neither  neologisms,  nor  inversions,  nor  grammatical 
extravagances,  nor  calculated  brutalities,  nor  affected 
ignorance,  nor  any  faintest  trace  of  pedantry  ? What 
these  men  have  to  say  is  more  or  less  interesting,  but 
they  address  us  in  the  same  language,  and  however 
arbitrarily  we  may  place  them,  though  we  hang  a pig- 
stye  by  Morland  next  to  a duchess  by  Gainsborough, 
we  are  surprised  by  a pleasant  air  of  family  like- 
ness in  the  execution.  We  feel,  however  differ- 
ently these  men  see  and  think,  that  they  are  content 
to  express  themselves  in  the  same  language.  Their 
work  may  be  compared  to  various  pieces  of  music 
played  on  an  instrument  which  was  common  property; 
they  were  satisfied  with  the  instrument,  and  preferred 
to  compose  new  music  for  it  than  to  experiment  with 
the  instrument  itself. 

It  may  be  argued  that  in  the  lapse  of  a 
hundred  years  the  numerous  differences  of  method 
which  characterise  modern  painting  will  disappear, 
and  that  it  will  seem  as  uniform  to  the  eyes  of 
the  twenty-first  century  as  the  painting  of  the 
eighteenth  century  seems  in  our  eyes  to-day.  I 
do  not  think  this  will  be  so.  And  in  proof 
of  this  opinion  I will  refer  again  to  the  differences 
of  opinion  regarding  the  first  principles  of  painting 
and  drawing  which  divided  Ingres  and  Gericault. 
Differences  regarding  first  principles  never  existed 
between  the  leaders  of  any  other  artistic  movement. 
Not  between  Michael  Angelo  and  Raphael,  not  % 
between  Veronese,  Tintoretto,  Titian,  and  Rubens; 
not  between  Hals  or  any  other  Dutchman,  except 
Rembrandt,  born  between  1600  and  1640 ; or  between 


IN  FRANCE  AND  ENGLAND. 


61 


Van  Dyck  and  Reynolds  and  Gainsborough.  Nor 
must  the  difference  between  the  methods  of  Giotto 
and  Titian  cause  any  one  to  misunderstand  my 
meaning.  The  change  that  two  centuries  brought  into 
art  was  a gradual  change,  corresponding  exactly  to 
the  ideas  which  the  painter  wished  to  express ; each 
method  was  sufficient  to  explain  the  ideas  current  at 
the  time  it  was  invented  for  that  purpose ; it  served 
that  purpose  and  no  more. 

Facilities  for  foreign  travel,  international  exhibi- 
tions, and  cosmopolitanism  have  helped  to  keep 
artists  of  all  countries  in  a ferment  of  uncertainty 
regarding  even  the  first  principles  of  their  art.  But 
this  is  not  all;  education  has  proved  a vigorous 
and  rapid  solvent,  and  has  completed  the  disin- 
tegration of  art.  A young  man  goes  to  the  Beaux 
Arts ; he  is  taught  how  to  measure  the  model  with 
his  pencil,  and  how  to  determine  the  movement  of 
the  model  with  his  plumb-line.  He  is  taught  how 
to  draw  by  the  masses  rather  than  by  the  character, 
and  the  advantages  of  this  teaching  permit  him,  if 
he  is  an  intelligent  fellow,  to  produce  at  the  end  of 
two  years,  hard  labour  a measured,  angular,  con- 
stipated drawing,  a sort  of  inferior  photograph.  He 
is  then  set  to  painting,  and  the  instruction  he  receives 
amounts  to  this — that  he  must  not  rub  the  paint 
about  with  his  brush  as  he  rubbed  the  chalk  with 
his  paper  stump.  After  a long  methodical  study 
of  the  model,  an  attempt  is  made  to  prepare  a 
corresponding  tone ; no  medium  must  be  used ; 
and  when  the  large  square  brush  is  filled  full  of 
sticky,  clogging  pigment  it  is  drawn  half  an  inch 


62 


ARTISTIC  EDUCATION 


down  and  then  half  an  inch  across  the  canvas,  and 
the  painter  must  calculate  how  much  he  can  finish 
at  a sitting,  for  this  system  does  not  admit  of  re- 
touchings. It  is  practised  in  all  the  French  studios, 
where  it  is  known  as  la  peinture  au  premier  coup . 

A clever  young  man,  a man  of  talent,  labours  at  art 
in  the  manner  I have  described  from  eight  to  ten 
hours  a day,  and  at  the  end  of  six  or  seven  years  his 
education  is  completed.  During  the  long  while  of 
his  pupilage  he  has  heard,  “ first  learn  your  trade,  and 
then  do  what  you  like.”  The  time  has  arrived  for 
him  to  do  what  he  likes.  He  already  suspects  that 
the  mere  imitation  of  MM.  Bouguereau  and  Lefebvre 
will  bring  him  neither  fame  nor  money;  he  soon 
finds  that  is  so,  and  it  becomes  clear  to  him  he 
must  do  something  different.  Enticing  vistas  of  possi- 
bilities open  out  before  him,  but  he  is  like  a man 
whose  limbs  have  been  kept  too  long  in  splints — they 
are  frozen ; and  he  at  length  understands  the  old  and 
terrible  truth  : as  the  twig  is  bent  so  will  it  grow. 
The  skin  he  would  slough  will  not  be  sloughed ; he 
tries  all  the  methods — robust  executions,  lymphatic 
executions,  sentimental  and  insipid  executions,  pains- 
taking executions,  cursive  and  impertinent  executions. 
Through  all  these  the  Beaux  Arts  student,  if  he  is 
intelligent  enough  to  perceive  the  falseness  and 
worthlessness  of  his  primary  education,  slowly  works 
his  way.  He  is  like  a vessel  without  ballast ; he  is  like 
a blindfolded  man  who  has  missed  his  pavement ; he 
is  blown  from  wave  to  wave;  he  is  confused  with 
contradictory  cries.  Last  year  he  was  robust,  this 
year  he  is  lymphatic;  he  affects  learning  which  he 


IN  FRANCE  AND  ENGLAND.  63 

does  not  possess,  and  then  he  assumes  airs  of  ignor 
ance,  equally  unreal — a mild,  sophisticated  ignorance, 
which  he  calls  naivete . And  these  various  executions 
he  is  never  more  than  superficially  acquainted  with ; 
he  does  not  practise  any  one  long  enough  to  extract 
what  good  there  may  be  in  it. 

To  set  before  the  reader  the  full  story  of  the  French 
decadence,  I should  have  to  relate  the  story  of  the 
great  schism  of  some  few  years  ago,  when  the  pedants 
remained  at  the  Salon  under  the  headship  of  Mr. 
Bouguereau,  and  the  experimentalists  followed  Meis- 
sonier  to  the  Champs  de  Mars.1  The  authoritative 
name  of  Meissonier,  the  genius  of  Puvis  de  Chavannes, 
and  the  interest  of  the  exhibition  of  Stevens’  early 
work,  sufficed  for  some  years  to  disguise  the  progress 
and  the  tendency  of  the  declension  of  French  art; 
and  it  was  not  until  last  year  (1892)  that  it  was 
impossible  to  doubt  any  longer  that  the  great  French 
renaissance  of  the  beginning  of  the  century  had  worn 
itself  out,  that  the  last  leaves  were  falling,  and  that 
probably  a long  period  of  winter  rest  was  preparing. 
French  art  has  resolved  itself  into  pedants  and  experi- 
mentalists ! The  Salon  is  now  like  to  a library  of  Latin 
verses  composed  by  the  Eton  and  Harrow  masters 
and  their  pupils  ; the  Champs  de  Mars  like  a costume 
ball  at  Elysde  Montmartre. 

In  England  it  is  customary  for  art  to  enter  by  a 
side  door,  and  the  enormous  subvention  to  the  Ken- 
sington Schools  would  never  have  been  voted  by 
Parliament  if  the  bill  had  not  been  gilt  with  the  usual 
utility  gilding.  It  was  represented  that  the  schools 
1 See  “ Impressions  and  Opinions.” 


64 


ARTISTIC  EDUCATION 


were  intended  for  something  much  more  serious  than 
the  mere  painting  of  pictures,  which  only  rich  people 
could  buy:  the  schools  were  primarily  intended  as 
schools  of  design,  wherein  the  sons  and  daughters  of 
the  people  would  be  taught  how  to  design  wall-papers, 
patterns  for  lace,  curtains,  damask  table-cloths,  etc. 
The  intention,  like  many  another,  was  excellent;  but 
the  fact  remains  that,  except  for  examination  purposes, 
the  work  done  by  Kensington  students  is  useless. 
A design  for  a piece  of  wall-paper,  for  which  a Ken- 
sington student  is  awarded  a medal,  is  almost  sure  to 
prove  abortive  when  put  to  a practical  test.  The 
isolated  pattern  looks  pretty  enough  on  the  two  feet 
of  white  paper  on  which  it  is  drawn;  but  when  the 
pattern  is  manifolded,  it  is  usually  found  that  the 
designer  has  not  taken  into  account  the  effect  of 
the  repetition.  That  is  the  pitfall  into  which  the 
Kensington  student  usually  falls;  he  cannot  make 
practical  application  of  his  knowledge,  and  at  Min- 
ton’s factory  all  the  designs  drawn  by  Kensington 
students  have  to  be  redrawn  by  those  who  understand 
the  practical  working  out  of  the  processes  of  repro- 
duction and  the  quality  of  the  material  employed. 
So  complete  is  the  failure  of  the  Kensington  student, 
that  to  plead  a Kensington  education  is  considered 
to  be  an  almost  fatal  objection  against  any  one 
applying  for  work  in  any  of  our  industrial  centres. 

Five-and-twenty  years  ago  the  schools  of  art  at 
South  Kensington  were  the  most  comical  in  the 
world;  they  were  the  most  complete  parody  on  the 
Continental  school  of  art  possible  to  imagine.  They 
are  no  doubt  the  same  to-day  as  they  were  five-and- 


IN  FRANCE  AND  ENGLAND . 65 

twenty  years  ago— any  way,  the  educational  result  is 
the  same.  The  schools  as  I remember  them  were 
faultless  in  everything  except  the  instruction  dispensed 
there.  There  were  noble  staircases,  the  floors  were 
covered  with  cocoa-nut  matting,  the  rooms  admirably 
heated  with  hot-water  pipes,  there  were  plaster  casts 
and  officials.  In  the  first  room  the  students  practised 
drawing  from  the  flat.  Engraved  outlines  of  elaborate 
ornamentation  were  given  them,  and  these  they 
drew  with  lead  pencil,  measuring  the  spaces  carefully 
with  compasses.  In  about  six  months  or  a year  the 
student  had  learned  to  use  his  compass  correctly, 
and  to  produce  a fine  hard  black-lead  outline;  the 
harder  and  finer  the  outline,  the  more  the  drawing 
looked  like  a problem  in  a book  of  Euclid,  the 
better  the  examiner  was  pleased,  and  the  more 
willing  was  he  to  send  the  student  to  the  room 
upstairs,  where  drawing  was  practised  from  the 
antique. 

This  was  the  room  in  which  the  wisdom  of 
South  Kensington  attained  a complete  efflorescence. 
I shall  never  forget  the  scenes  I witnessed  there. 
Having  made  choice  of  a cast,  the  student  proceeded 
to  measure  the  number  of  heads;  he  then  measured 
the  cast  in  every  direction,  and  ascertained  by  means 
of  a plumb-line  exactly  where  the  lines  fell.  It  was 
more  like  land-surveying  than  drawing,  and  to  accom- 
plish this  portion  of  his  task  took  generally  a fortnight, 
working  six  hours  a week.  He  then  placed  a sheet 
of  tissue  paper  upon  his  drawing,  leaving  only  one 
small  part  uncovered,  and,  having  reduced  his  cha)k 
pencil  to  the  finest  possible  point,  he  proceeded  to 

5 


66 


ARTISTIC  EDUCATION 


lay  in  a set  of  extremely  fine  lines.  These  were 
crossed  by  a second  set  of  lines,  and  the  two  sets 
of  lines  were  elaborately  stippled,  every  black  spot 
being  carefully  picked  out  with  bread.  With  a 
patience  truly  sublime  in  its  folly,  he  continued  the 
process  all  the  way  down  the  figure,  accomplishing, 
if  he  were  truly  industrious,  about  an  inch  square  in 
the  course  of  an  evening.  Our  admiration  was  gener- 
ally directed  to  those  who  had  spent  the  longest  time 
on  their  drawings.  After  three  months*  work  a 
student  began  to  be  noticed ; at  the  end  of  four  he 
became  an  important  personage.  I remember  one 
who  had  contrived  to  spend  six  months  on  his 
drawing.  He  was  a sort  of  demigod,  and  we  used 
to  watch  him  anxious  and  alarmed  lest  he  might 
not  have  the  genius  to  devote  still  another  month  to 
it,  and  our  enthusiasm  knew  no  bounds  when  we 
learned  that,  a week  before  the  drawings  had  to 
be  sent  in,  he  had  taken  his  drawing  home  and  spent 
three  whole  days  stippling  it  and  picking  out  the 
black  spots  with  bread. 

The  poor  drawing  had  neither  character  nor 
consistency ; it  looked  like  nothing  under  the 
sun,  except  a drawing  done  at  Kensington  — a 
flat,  foolish  thing,  but  very  soft  and  smooth.  But 
this  was  enough;  it  was  passed  by  the  examiners, 
and  the  student  went  into  the  Life  Room  to  copy 
an  Italian  model  as  he  had  copied  the  Apollo 
Belvedere.  Once  or  twice  a week  a gentleman  who 
painted  tenth-rate  pictures,  which  were  not  always 
hung  in  the  Academy,  came  round  and  passed 
casual  remarks  on  the  quality  of  the  stippling. 


IN  FRANCE  AND  ENGLAND 


6? 


There  was  a head-master  who  painted  tenth-rate 
historical  pictures,  after  the  manner  of  a tenth-rate 
German  painter  in  a provincial  town,  in  a vast  studio 
upstairs,  which  the  State  was  good  enough  to  provide 
him  with,  and  he  occasionally  walked  through  the 
studios ; on  an  average,  I should  say,  once  a month. 

The  desire  to  organise  art  proceeded  in  France 
from  a love  of  system,  and  in  England  from  a love  of 
respectability.  To  the  ordinary  mind  there  is  some- 
thing especially  reassuring  in  medals,  crowns,  examina- 
tions, professors,  and  titles ; and  since  the  founding 
of  the  Kensington  Schools  we  unfortunately  hear  no 
more  of  parents  opposing  their  children’s  wishes  to 
become  artists.  The  result  of  all  these  facilities  for 
art  study  has  been  to  swamp  natural  genius  and  to 
produce  enormous  quantities  of  vacuous  little  water 
colours  and  slimy  little  oil  colours.  Young  men  have 
been  prevented  from  going  to  Australia  and  Canada 
and  becoming  rough  farmers,  and  young  ladies  from 
following  them  and  becoming  rough  wives  and  the 
mothers  of  healthy  children.  Instead  of  such  natural 
emigration  and  extension  of  the  race,  febrile  little 
pilgrimages  have  been  organised  to  Paris  and  Grey, 
whence  astonishing  methods  and  theories  regarding 
the  conditions,  under  which  painting  alone  can  be 
accomplished,  have  been  brought  back.  Original 
Kensington  stipple  has  been  crossed  with  square 
brush-work,  and  the  mule  has  been  bred  in  and  in 
with  open  brush-work,  and  fresh  strains  have  been 
sought  in  the  execution  at  the  angle  of  forty-five; 
art  has  become  infinitely  hybrid  and  definitely 
sterile. 


68 


ARTISTIC  EDUCATION 


Must  we  then  conclude  that  all  education  is  an 
evil  ? Why  exaggerate ; why  outstrip  the  plain  telling 
of  the  facts?  For  those  who  are  thinking  of  adopting 
art  as  a profession  it  is  sufficient  to  know  that  the  one 
irreparable  evil  is  a bad  primary  education.  Be  sure 
that  after  five  years  of  the  Beaux  Arts  you  cannot 
become  a great  painter.  Be  sure  that  after  five  years 
of  Kensington  you  can  never  become  a painter  at  all. 
“ If  not  at  Kensington  nor  at  the  Beaux  Arts,  where 
am  I to  obtain  the  education  I stand  in  need  of?” 
cries  the  embarrassed  student.  I do  not  propose  to 
answer  that  question  directly.  How  the  masters  of 
Holland  and  Flanders  obtained  their  marvellous 
education  is  not  known.  We  neither  know  how  they 
learned  nor  how  they  painted.  Did  the  early  masters 
paint  first  in  monochrome,  adding  the  colouring 
matter  afterwards  ? Much  vain  conjecturing  has  been 
expended  in  attempting  to  solve  this  question.  Did 
Ruysdale  paint  direct  from  nature  or  from  drawings  ? 
Unfortunately  on  this  question  history  has  no  single 
word  to  say.  We  know  that  Potter  learned  his  trade 
in  the  fields  in  lonely  communication  with  nature. 
We  know  too  that  Crome  was  a house-painter,  and 
practised  painting  from  nature  when  his  daily  work 
was  done.  Nevertheless  he  attained  as  perfect  a 
technique  as  any  painter  that  ever  lived.  Morland, 
too,  was  self-taught : he  practised  painting  in  the 
fields  and  farmyards  and  the  country  inns  where  he 
lived,  oftentimes  paying  for  board  and  lodging  with 
a picture.  Did  his  art  suffer  from  want  of  educa- 
tion? Is  there  any  one  who  believes  that  Morland 
would  have  done  better  work  if  he  had  spent  three 


IN  FRANCE  AND  ENGLAND . 69 


or  four  years  stippling  drawings  from  the  antique  at 
South  Kensington  ? 

I will  conclude  these  remarks,  far  too  cursive  and 
incomplete,  with  an  anecdote  which,  I think,  will 
cause  the  thoughtful  to  ponder.  Some  seven  or 
eight  years  ago,  Renoir,  a painter  of  rare  talent  and 
originality,  after  twenty  years  of  struggle  with  himself 
and  poverty,  succeeded  in  attaining  a very  distinct 
and  personal  expression  of  his  individuality.  Out  of 
a hundred  influences  he  had  succeeded  in  extracting 
an  art  as  beautiful  as  it  was  new.  His  work  was 
beginning  to  attract  buyers.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life  he  had  a little  money  in  hand,  and  he  thought  he 
would  like  a holiday.  Long  reading  of  novels  leads 
the  reader  to  suppose  that  he  found  his  ruin  in  a 
period  of  riotous  living,  the  reaction  induced  by 
anxiety  and  over-work.  Not  at  all.  He  did  what 
every  wise  friend  would  have  advised  him  to  do 
under  the  circumstances  : he  went  to  Venice  to  study 
Tintoretto.  The  magnificences  of  this  master  struck 
him  through  with  the  sense  of  his  own  insignificance; 
he  became  aware  of  the  fact  that  he  could  not  draw 
like  Tintoretto;  and  when  he  returned  to  Paris  he 
resolved  to  subject  himself  to  two  years  of  hard  study 
in  an  art  school.  For  two  years  he  laboured  in  the 
life  class,  working  on  an  average  from  seven  to  ten 
hours  a day,  and  in  two  years  he  had  utterly  destroyed 
every  trace  of  the  charming  and  delightful  art  which 
had  taken  him  twenty  years  to  build  up.  I know 
of  no  more  tragic  story— do  you  ? 


INGRES  AND  COROT. 


Of  the  thirty  or  more  great  artists  who  made  the 
artistic  movement  at  the  beginning  of  the  century 
in  France,  five  will,  I think,  exercise  a prolonged 
influence  on  the  art  of  the  future — Ingres,  Corot, 
Millet,  Manet,  and  Degas. 

The  omission  of  the  name  of  Delacroix  will  sur- 
prise many;  but  though  Delacroix  will  engage  the 
attention  of  artists  as  they  walk  through  the  Louvre, 
I do  not  think  that  they  will  turn  to  him  for  counsel 
in  their  difficulty,  or  that  they  will  learn  from  him 
any  secrets  of  their  craft.  In  the  great  masters 
of  pictorial  composition— Michael  Angelo,  Veronese, 
Tintoretto,  and  Rubens — the  passion  and  tumult 
of  the  work  resides  solely  in  the  conception;  the 
execution  is  always  calculated,  and  the  result  is  per- 
fectly predetermined  and  accurately  foreseen.  To 
explain  myself  I will  tell  an  anecdote  which  is  always 
told  whenever  Delacroix’s  name  is  mentioned,  with- 
out, however,  the  true  significance  of  the  anecdote 
being  perceived.  After  seeing  Constable’s  pictures, 
Delacroix  repainted  one  of  his  most  important  works 
from  end  to  end. 

Of  Degas1  and  Manet  I have  spoken  elsewhere. 

1 See  essay  on  Degas  in  “ Impressions  and  Opinions.” 


INGRES  AND  COROT. 


7i 


Millet  seems  to  me  to  be  a sort  of  nineteenth  century 
Greuze.  The  subject-matter  is  different,  but  at  bottom 
the  art  of  these  two  painters  is  more  alike  than  is 
generally  supposed.  Neither  was  a painter  in  any 
true  sense  of  the  word,  and  if  the  future  learns  any- 
thing from  Millet,  it  will  be  how  to  separate  the  scene 
from  the  environment  which  absorbs  it,  how  to  sacri- 
fice the  background,  how  to  suggest  rather  than  to 
point  out,  and  how  by  a series  of  ellipses  to  lead  the 
spectator  to  imagine  what  is  not  there.  The  student 
may  learn  from  Millet  that  it  was  by  sometimes  ser- 
vilely copying  nature,  sometimes  by  neglecting  nature, 
that  the  old  masters  succeeded  in  conveying  not  an 
illusion  but  an  impression  of  life. 

But  of  all  nineteenth  century  painters  Ingres  and 
Corot  seem  most  sure  of  future  life ; their  claim  upon 
the  attention  and  the  admiration  of  future  artists  seems 
the  most  securely  founded.  Looked  at  from  a cer- 
tain side  Ingres  seems  for  sheer  perfection  to  challenge 
antiquity.  Of  Michael  Angelo  there  can  never  be  any 
question ; he  stands  alone  in  a solitude  of  greatness. 
Phidias  himself  is  not  so  much  alone.  For  the  art  of 
Apelles  could  not  have  differed  from  that  of  Phidias ; 
and  the  intention  of  many  a drawing  by  Apelles  must 
have  been  identical  with  that  of  “ La  Source.”  It  is 
difficult  to  imagine  what  further  beauty  he  may  have 
introduced  into  a face,  or  what  further  word  he  might 
have  had  to  say  on  the  beauty  of  a virgin  body. 

The  legs  alone  suggest  the  possibility  of  censure. 
Ingres  repainted  the  legs  when  the  picture  was 
finished  and  the  model  was  not  before  him,  so  the 
idea  obtains  among  artists  that  the  legs  are  what  are 


72 


INGRES  AND  COROT. 


least  perfect  in  the  picture.  In  repainting  the  legs 
his  object  was  omission  of  detail  with  a view  to  con- 
centration of  attention  on  the  upper  part  of  the 
figure.  It  must  not  however  be  supposed  that  the 
legs  are  what  is  known  among  painters  as  empty; 
they  have  been  simplified ; their  synthetic  expression 
has  been  found ; and  if  the  teaching  at  the  Beaux 
Arts  forbids  the  present  generation  to  understand  such 
drawing,  the  feult  lies  with  the  state  that  permits  the 
Beaux  Arts,  and  not  with  Ingres,  whose  genius  was 
not  crushed  by  it.  The  suggestion  that  Ingres  spoilt 
the  legs  of  “ La  Source”  by  repainting  them  when  the 
model  was  not  before  him  could  come  from  nowhere 
but  the  Beaux  Arts. 

That  Ingres  was  not  so  great  an  artist  as  Raphael 
I am  aware.  That  Ingres*  drawings  show  none 
of  the  dramatic  inventiveness  of  Raphael’s  drawings 
is  so  obvious  that  I must  apologise  for  such  a 
commonplace.  Raphael’s  drawings  were  done  with 
a different  intention  from  Ingres’;  Raphael’s  drawings 
were  no  more  than  rough  memoranda,  and  in  no 
instance  did  he  attempt  to  carry  a drawing  to  the 
extreme  limit  that  Ingres  did.  Ingres’  drawing  is 
one  thing,  Raphael’s  is  another;  still  I would  ask 
if  any  one  thinks  that  Raphael  could  have  carried 
a drawing  as  far  as  Ingres  ? I would  ask  if  any  of 
Raphael’s  drawings  are  as  beautiful,  as  perfect,  or  as 
instructive  as  Ingres’.  Take,  for  example,  the  pencil 
drawing  in  the  Louvre,  the  study  for  the  odalisque : 
who  except  a Greek  could  have  produced  so  perfect 
a drawing  ? I can  imagine  Apelles  doing  something 
like  it,  but  no  one  else. 


INGRES  AND  COROE 


73 


When  you  go  to  the  Louvre  examine  that  line  of 
back,  return  the  next  day  and  the  next,  and  consider 
its  infinite  perfection  before  you  conclude  that  my 
appreciation  is  exaggerated.  Think  of  the  learning 
and  the  love  that  were  necessary  for  the  accomplish- 
ment of  such  exquisite  simplifications.  Never  did  pencil 
follow  an  outline  with  such  penetrating  and  unweary- 
ing passion,  or  clasp  and  enfold  it  with  such  simple 
and  sufficient  modelling.  Nowhere  can  you  detect 
a starting-point  or  a measurement  taken ; it  seems  to 
have  grown  as  a beautiful  tendril  grows,  and  every 
curve  sways  as  mysteriously,  and  the  perfection  seems 
as  divine.  Beside  it  Diirer  would  seem  crabbed  and 
puzzle-headed ; Holbein  would  seem  angular  and 
geometrical ; Da  Vinci  would  seem  vague : and  I 
hope  that  no  critic  by  partial  quotation  will  endeavour 
to  prove  me  guilty  of  having  said  that  Ingres  was 
a greater  artist  than  Da  Vinci.  I have  not  said  any 
such  thing;  I have  merely  striven  by  aid  of  com- 
parison to  bring  before  the  reader  some  sense  of 
the  miraculous  beauty  of  one  of  Ingres*  finest  pencil 
drawings. 

Or  let  us  choose  the  well-known  drawing  of  the 
Italian  lady  sitting  in  the  Louis  XV.  arm-chair,  her  long 
curved  and  jewelled  hand  lying  in  her  lap  and  a 
coiffure  of  laces  pinned  down  with  a long  jewelled 
hair-pin.  How  her  head-dress  of  large  laces  decorates 
the  paper,  and  the  elaborate  working  out  of  the 
pattern,  is  it  not  a miracle  of  handicraft  ? How  ex- 
quisite the  black  curls  on  the  forehead,  and  how  they 
balance  the  dark  eyes  which  are  the  depth  and  centre 
of  the  composition ! The  necklace,  how  well  the 


74 


INGRES  AND  COROT, 


stones  are  heaped,  how  well  they  lie  together  ! How 
well  their  weight  and  beauty  are  expressed ! And  the 
earrings,  how  enticing  in  their  intricate  workmanship. 
Then  the  movement  of  the  face,  how  full  it  is  of  the 
indolent  south,  and  the  oval  of  the  face  is  composed  to 
harmonise  and  enhance  the  lace  head-dress ; and  its 
outline,  though  full  of  classical  simplifications,  tells  the 
character  with  Holbein-like  fidelity ; it  falls  away  into 
a soft,  weak  chin  in  which  resides  a soft  sensual  lassi- 
tude. The  black  eyes  are  set  like  languid  stars  in  the 
face,  and  the  flesh  rounds  off  softly,  like  a sky,  modelled 
with  a little  shadow,  part  of  the  outline,  and  ex- 
pressing its  beauty.  And  then  there  are  the 
marvels  of  the  dress  to  consider:  the  perfect  and 
spontaneous  creation  of  the  glitter  of  the  long  silk 
arms,  and  the  muslin  of  the  wrists,  soft  as  foliage, 
and  then  the  hardness  of  the  bodice  stitched  with 
jewellery  and  set  so  romantically  on  the  almost 
epicene  bosom. 

It  is  the  essentially  Greek  quality  of  perfection  that 
brings  Corot  and  Ingres  together.  They  are  perfect,  as 
none  other  since  the  Greek  sculptors  has  been  perfect. 
Other  painters  have  desired  beauty  at  intervals  as 
passionately  as  they,  none  save  the  Greeks  so  con- 
tinuously; and  the  desire  to  be  merely  beautiful 
seemed,  if  possible,  to  absorb  the  art  of  Corot  even 
more  completely  than  it  did  that  of  Ingres.  Among 
the  numerous  pictures,  sketches,  and  drawings  which 
he  left  you  will  find  weakness,  repetitions,  even 
commonplace,  but  ugliness  never.  An  ugly  set  of 
lines  is  not  to  be  found  in  Corot ; the  rhythm  may 
sometimes  be  weak,  but  his  lines  never  run  out  of 


INGRES  AND  COROT 


75 


metre.  For  the  rhythm  of  line  as  well  as  of  sound 
the  artist  must  seek  in  his  own  soul ; he  will  never 
find  it  in  the  inchoate  and  discordant  jumble  which 
we  call  nature. 

And,  after  all,  what  is  art  but  rhythm  ? Corot 
knew  that  art  is  nature  made  rhythmical,  and 
so  he  was  never  known  to  take  out  a six-foot 
canvas  to  copy  nature  on.  Being  an  artist,  he 
preferred  to  observe  nature,  and  he  lay  down  and 
dreamed  his  fields  and  trees,  and  he  walked  about  in 
his  landscape,  selecting  his  point  of  view,  determining 
the  rhythm  of  his  lines.  That  sense  of  rhythm  which 
I have  defined  as  art  was  remarkable  in  him  even 
from  his  first  pictures.  In  the  “ Castle  of  St.  Angelo, 
Rome,”  for  instance,  the  placing  of  the  buildings,  one 
low  down,  the  other  high  up  in  the  picture,  the  bridge 
between,  and  behind  the  bridge  the  dome  of  St. 
Peter’s,  is  as  faultless  a composition  as  his  maturest 
work.  As  faultless,  and  yet  not  so  exquisite. 
For  it  took  many  long  and  pensive  years  to 
attain  the  more  subtle  and  delicate  rhythms  of  “ The 
Lake”  in  the  collection  of  J.  S.  Forbes,  Esq.,  or 
the  landscape  in  the  collection  of  G.  N.  Stevens, 
Esq.,  or  the  “Ravine”  in  the  collection  of  Sir  John 
Day. 

Corot’s  style  changed;  but  it  changed  gradually, 
as  nature  changes,  waxing  like  the  moon  from  a thin, 
pure  crescent  to  a full  circle  of  light.  Guided  by  a 
perfect  instinct,  he  progressed,  fulfilling  the  course  of 
his  artistic  destiny.  We  notice  change,  but  each 
change  brings  fuller  beauty.  And  through  the  long 
and  beautiful  year  of  Corot’s  genius — full  as  the  year 


76 


INGRES  AND  COROT. 


itself  of  months  and  seasons — we  notice  that  the 
change  that  comes  over  his  art  is  always  in  the  direc- 
tion of  purer  and  more  spiritual  beauty.  We  find 
him  more  and  more  absorbed  in  the  emotion  that 
the  landscape  conveys,  more  willing  to  sacrifice  the 
superfluous  and  circumstantial  for  the  sake  of  the 
immortal  beauty  of  things. 

Look  at  the  “ Lac  de  Garde  ” and  say  if  you  can 
that  the  old  Greek  melody  is  not  audible  in  the 
line  which  bends  and  floats  to  the  lake’s  edge,  in  the 
massing  and  the  placing  of  those  trees,  in  the  fragile 
grace  of  the  broken  birch  which  sweeps  the  “pale 
complexioned  sky.”  Are  we  not  looking  into  the 
heart  of  nature,  and  do  we  not  hear  the  silence  that 
is  the  soul  of  evening  ? In  this,  his  perfect  period, 
he  is  content  to  leave  his  foreground  rubbed  over 
with  some  expressive  grey,  knowing  well  that  the  eye 
rests  not  there,  and  upon  his  middle  distance  he  will 
lavish  his  entire  art,  concentrating  his  picture  on 
some  one  thing  in  which  for  him  resides  the  true 
reality  of  the  place;  be  this  the  evening  ripples  on 
the  lake  or  the  shimmering  of  the  willow  leaves  as 
the  last  light  dies  out  of  the  sky. 

I only  saw  Corot  once.  It  was  in  some  woods  near 
Paris,  where  I had  gone  to  paint,  and  I came  across 
the  old  gentleman  unexpectedly,  seated  in  front  of  his 
easel  in  a pleasant  glade.  After  admiring  his  work  I 
ventured  to  say : “ Master,  what  you  are  doing  is 
lovely,  but  I cannot  find  your  composition  in  the 
landscape  before  us.”  He  said : “ My  foreground  is  a 
long  way  ahead,”  and  sure  enough,  nearly  two  hundred 
yards  away,  his  picture  rose  out  of  the  dimness  of  the 


INGRES  AND  COROT.  77 

dell,  stretching  a little  beyond  the  vista  into  the 
meadow. 

The  anecdote  seems  to  me  to  be  a real  lesson  in 
the  art  of  painting,  for  it  shows  us  the  painter  in  his 
very  employment  of  nature,  and  we  divine  easily  the 
transposition  in  the  tones  and  in  the  aspect  of  things 
that  he  was  engaged  in  bringing  into  that  picture. 
And  to  speak  of  transpositions  leads  us  inevitably 
into  consideration  of  the  great  secret  of  Corot's  art, 
his  employment  of  what  is  known  in  studios  as 
values. 

By  values  is  meant  the  amount  of  light  and  shadow 
contained  in  a tone.  The  relation  of  a half-tint  to 
the  highest  light,  which  is  represented  by  the  white 
paper,  the  relation  of  a shadow  to  the  deepest  black, 
which  is  represented  by  the  chalk  pencil,  is  easy 
enough  to  perceive  in  a drawing ; but  when  the  work 
is  in  colour  the  values,  although  not  less  real,  are 
more  difficult  to  estimate.  For  a colour  can  be 
considered  from  two  points  of  view : either  as  so 
much  colouring  matter,  or  as  so  much  light  and 
shade.  Violet,  for  instance,  contains  not  only  red 
and  blue  in  proportions  which  may  be  indefinitely 
varied,  but  also  certain  proportions  of  light  and 
shade ; the  former  tending  towards  the  highest  light, 
represented  on  the  palette  by  flake  white ; the  latter 
tending  towards  the  deepest  dark,  represented  on 
the  palette  by  ivory  black. 

Similar  to  a note  in  music,  no  colour  can  be  said 
to  be  in  itself  either  false  or  true,  ugly  or  beautiful. 
A note  and  a colour  acquire  beauty  and  ugliness 
according  to  their  associations;  therefore  to  colour 


78 


INGRES  AND  COROT. 


well  depends,  in  the  first  instance,  on  the  painter’s 
knowledge  and  intimate  sense  of  the  laws  of  con- 
trast and  similitude.  But  there  is  still  another  factor 
in  the  art  of  colouring  well ; for,  just  as  the  musician 
obtains  richness  and  novelty  of  expression  by  means 
of  a distribution  of  sound  through  the  instruments  of 
the  orchestra,  so  does  the  painter  obtain  depth  and 
richness  through  a judicious  distribution  of  values. 
If  we  were  to  disturb  the  distribution  of  values  in 
the  pictures  of  Titian,  Rubens,  Veronese,  their  colour 
would  at  once  seem  crude,  superficial,  without 
cohesion  or  rarity.  But  some  will  aver  that  if  the 
colour  is  right  the  values  must  be  right  too.  How- 
ever plausible  this  theory  may  seem,  the  practice  of 
those  who  hold  it  amply  demonstrates  its  untruth. 
It  is  interesting  and  instructive  to  notice  how  those 
who  seek  the  colour  without  regard  for  the  values 
inherent  in  the  colouring  matter  never  succeed  in 
producing  more  than  a certain  shallow  superficial 
brilliancy;  the  colour  of  such  painters  is  never  rich 
or  profound,  and  although  it  may  be  beautiful,  it 
is  always  wanting  in  the  element  of  romantic  charm 
and  mystery. 

The  colour  is  the  melody,  the  values  are  the 
orchestration  of  the  melody;  and  as  the  orchestra- 
tion serves  to  enrich  the  melody,  so  do  the  values 
enrich  the  colour.  And  as  melody  may — nay,  must 
— exist,  if  the  orchestration  be  really  beautiful,  so 
colour  must  inhere  wherever  the  values  have  been 
finely  observed.  In  Rembrandt,  the  colour  is  brown 
and  a white  faintly  tinted  with  bitumen ; in  Claude, 
the  colour  is  blue,  faintly  flushed  with  yellow  in  the 


INGRES  AND  COROT. 


79 


middle  sky,  and  yet  none  has  denied  the  right  of 
these  painters  to  be  considered  colourists.  They 
painted  with  the  values — that  is  to  say,  with  what 
remains  on  the  palette  when  abstraction  has  been 
made  of  the  colouring  matter — a delicate  neutral  tint 
of  infinite  subtlety  and  charm;  and  it  is  with  this, 
the  evanescent  and  impalpable  soul  of  the  vanished 
colours,  that  the  most  beautiful  pictures  are  painted. 
Corot,  too,  is  a conspicuous  example  of  this  mode 
of  painting.  His  right  to  stand  among  the  world's 
colourists  has  never,  so  far  as  I know,  been  seriously 
contested,  his  pictures  are  almost  void  of  colouring 
matter — a blending  of  grey  and  green,  and  yet  the 
result  is  of  a richly  coloured  evening. 

Corot  and  Rembrandt,  as  Dutilleux  pointed  out, 
arrived  at  the  same  goal  by  absolutely  different  ends. 
He  saw  clearly,  although  he  could  not  express  himself 
quite  clearly,  that,  above  all  painters,  Rembrandt  and 
Corot  excelled  in  that  mode  of  pictorial  expression 
known  as  values,  or  shall  I say  chiaroscuro,  for  in 
truth  he  who  has  said  values  has  hinted  chiaroscuro. 
Rembrandt  told  all  that  a golden  ray  falling  through 
a darkened  room  awakens  in  a visionary  brain ; Corot 
told  all  that  the  grey  light  of  morning  and  evening 
whispers  in  the  pensive  mind  of  the  elegiac  poet. 
The  story  told  was  widely  different,  but  the  manner 
of  telling  was  the  same  : one  attenuated  in  the  light, 
the  other  attenuated  in  the  shadow:  both  sacrificed 
the  corners  with  a view  to  fixing  the  attention  on  the 
one  spot  in  which  the  soul  of  the  picture  lives. 

All  schools  have  not  set  great  store  on  values, 
although  all  schools  have  set  great  store  on  drawing 


So 


INGRES  AND  COROT . 


and  colour.  Values  seem  to  have  come  and  gone  in 
and  out  of  painting  like  a fashion.  One  generation 
hardly  gives  the  matter  a thought,  the  succeeding 
generation  finds  the  whole  charm  of  its  art  in  values. 
It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  a more  interesting 
and  instructive  history  than  the  history  of  values  in 
painting.  It  is  far  from  my  scheme  to  write  such  a 
history,  but  I wish  that  such  a history  were  written, 
for  then  we  should  see  clearly  how  unwise  were  they 
who  neglected  the  principle,  and  how  much  they 
lost.  I would  only  call  attention  to  how  the  principle 
came  to  be  reintroduced  into  French  art  in  the 
beginning  of  this  century.  It  came  from  Holland 
vi<z  England  through  the  pictures  of  Turner  and 
Constable.  It  was  an  Anglo-Dutch  influence  that 
roused  French  art,  then  slumbering  in  the  pseudo- 
classicisms of  the  First  Empire;  and,  half-a wakened, 
French  art  turned  its  eyes  to  Holland  for  inspiration ; 
and  values,  the  foundation  and  corner-stone  of  Dutch 
art,  became  almost  at  a bound  a first  article  of  faith  in 
the  artistic  creed.  In  1830  values  came  upon  France 
like  a religion.  Rembrandt  was  the  new  Messiah, 
Holland  was  the  Holy  Land,  and  disciples  were  busy 
dispensing  the  propaganda  in  every  studio. 

Since  the  bad  example  of  Greuze,  literature 
had  wound  round  every  branch  of  painting  until 
painting  seemed  to  disappear  in  the  parasite  like  an 
oak  under  a cloud  of  ivy.  The  excess  had  been  great 
— a reaction  was  inevitable — and  Rembrandt,  with 
his  Biblical  legends,  furnished  the  necessary  transi- 
tion. But  when  a taste  for  painting  had  been 
reacquired,  one  after  the  other  the  Dutch  painters 


INGRES  AND  COROT 


8 1 


became  the  fashion.  It  is  almost  unnecessary  to 
point  out  the  influence  of  Hobbema  on  the  art  of 
Rousseau.  Corot  was  less  affected  by  the  Dutch- 
men, or,  to  speak  more  exactly,  he  assimilated  more 
completely  what  he  had  learnt  from  them  than  his 
rival  was  able  to  do.  Moreover,  what  he  took  from 
Holland  came  to  him  through  Ruysdael  rather  than 
through  Hobbema. 

The  great  morose  dreamer,  contemplative  and 
grave  as  Wordsworth,  must  have  made  more  direct 
and  intimate  appeal  to  Corot’s  soul  than  the  charm 
and  the  gaiety  of  Hobbema’s  water-mills.  Be  this 
as  it  may,  it  was  Holland  that  revived  the  long- 
forgotten  science  of  values  in  the  Barbizon  painters. 
They  sought  their  art  in  the  direction  of  values, 
and  very  easily  Corot  took  the  lead  as  chief  exponent 
of  the  new  principle ; and  he  succeeded  in  applying 
the  principle  of  values  to  landscape  painting  as  fully 
as  Rembrandt  had  to  figure  painting. 

But  at  the  moment  when  the  new  means  of 
expression  seemed  most  distinctly  established  and 
understood,  it  was  put  aside  and  lost  sight  of  by  a 
new  generation  of  painters,  and,  curiously  enough, 
by  the  men  who  had  most  vigorously  proclaimed  the 
beauty  and  perfection  of  the  art  which  was  to  be 
henceforth,  at  least  in  practice,  their  mission  to  repu- 
diate. For  I take  it  that  the  art  of  the  impressionists 
has  nothing  whatever  in  common  with  the  art  of 
Corot.  True,  that  Corot’s  aim  was  to  render  his 
impression  of  his  subject,  no  matter  whether  it  was 
a landscape  or  a figure;  in  this  aim  he  differed 
in  no  wise  from  Giotto  and  Van  Eyck ; but  we  are 

6 


82 


INGRES  AND  COROT. 


not  considering  Corot’s  aims  but  his  means  of 
expression,  and  his  means  of  expression  were  the  very 
opposite  to  those  employed  by  Monet  and  the  school 
of  Monet.  Not  with  half-tints  in  which  colour  dis- 
appears are  Monet  and  his  school  concerned,  but 
with  the  brilliant  vibration  of  colour  in  the  full  light, 
with  open  spaces  where  the  light  is  reflected  back  and 
forward,  and  nature  is  but  a prism  filled  with  dazzling 
and  iridescent  tints. 

I remember  once  writing  about  one  of  Monet’s 
innumerable  snow  effects:  “This  picture  is  in  his 
most  radiant  manner.  A line  of  snow-enchanted 
architecture  passes  through  the  picture — only  poor 
houses  with  a single  square  church  tower,  but  they 
are  beautiful  as  Greek  temples  in  the  supernatural 
whiteness  of  the  great  immaculate  snow.  Below  the 
village,  but  not  quite  in  the  foreground,  a few  yellow 
bushes,  bare  and  crippled  by  the  frost,  and  around 
and  above  a marvellous  glitter  in  pale  blue  and  pale 
rose  tints.”  I asked  if  the  touch  was  not  more 
precious  than  intimate;  and  I spoke,  too,  of  a shallow 
and  brilliant  appearance.  But  if  I had  asked  why  the 
picture,  notwithstanding  its  incontestable  merits,  was 
so  much  on  the  surface,  why  it  so  irresistibly  sug- 
gested un  decor  de  ih'eatre , why  one  did  not  enter  into 
it  as  one  does  into  a picture  by  Wilson  or  Corot,  my 
criticism  would  have  gone  to  the  root  of  the  evil. 
And  the  reason  of  this  is  because  Monet  has  never 
known  how  to  organise  and  control  his  values. 
The  relation  of  a wall  to  the  sky  which  he 
observes  so  finely  seem  as  if  deliberately  contrived 
for  the  suppression  of  all  atmosphere;  and  we  miss 


INGRES  AND  COROT, 


83 


in  Monet  the  delicacy  and  the  mystery  which  are 
the  charm  of  Corot.  The  bath  of  air  being  with- 
drawn, a landscape  becomes  a mosaic,  flat  surface 
takes  the  place  of  round  : the  next  step  is  some 
form  or  other  of  pre-Raphaelitism. 


MONET,  SISLEY,  PISSARO,  AND  THE 
DECADENCE. 


Nature  demands  that  children  should  devour  their 
parents,  and  Corot  was  hardly  cold  in  his  grave  when 
his  teaching  came  to  be  neglected  and  even  denied. 
Values  were  abandoned  and  colour  became  the  unique 
thought  of  the  new  school. 

My  first  acquaintance  with  Monet’s  painting  was 
made  in  ’75  or  ’76 — the  year  he  exhibited  his  first 
steam-engine  and  his  celebrated  troop  of  life-size 
turkeys  gobbling  the  tall  grass  in  a meadow,  at  the 
end  of  which  stood,  high  up  in  the  picture,  a French 
chateau.  Impressionism  is  a word  that  has  lent  itself 
to  every  kind  of  misinterpretation,  for  in  its  exact 
sense  all  true  painting  is  penetrated  with  impres- 
sionism, but,  to  use  the  word  in  its  most  modern 
sense — that  is  to  say,  to  signify  the  rapid  noting  of 
illusive  appearance — Monet  is  the  only  painter  to 
whom  it  may  be  reasonably  applied.  I remember 
very  well  that  sunlit  meadow  and  the  long  coloured 
necks  of  the  turkeys.  Truly  it  may  be  said  that, 
for  the  space  of  one  rapid  glance,  the  canvas  radiates; 
it  throws  its  light  in  the  face  of  the  spectator  as, 
perhaps,  no  canvas  did  before.  But  if  the  eyes  are 
not  immediately  averted  the  illusion  passes,  and  its 
place  is  taken  by  a somewhat  incoherent  and  crude 
coloration.  Then  the  merits  of  the  picture  strike  you 


MONET,  SISLEY,  PISSARO.  85 

as  having  been  obtained  by  excessive  accomplishment 
in  one-third  of  the  handicraft  and  something  like  a 
formal  protestation  of  the  non-existence  of  the  other 
two-thirds.  Since  that  year  I have  seen  Monets  by 
the  score,  and  have  hardly  observed  any  change  or 
alteration  in  his  manner  of  seeing  or  executing,  or 
any  development  soever  in  his  art.  At  the  end  of  the 
season  he  comes  up  from  the  country  with  thirty  or 
forty  landscapes,  all  equally  perfect,  all  painted  in  pre- 
cisely the  same  way,  and  no  one  shows  the  slightest 
sign  of  hesitation,  and  no  one  suggests  the  unattain- 
able, the  beyond;  one  and  all  reveal  to  us  a man  who 
is  always  sure  of  his  effect,  and  who  is  always  in  a 
hurry.  Any  corner  of  nature  will  do  equally  well  for 
his  purpose,  nor  is  he  disposed  to  change  the  disposi- 
tion of  any  line  of  tree  or  river  or  hill ; so  long  as  a 
certain  reverberation  of  colour  is  obtained  all  is  well. 
An  unceasing  production,  and  an  almost  unvarying 
degree  of  excellence,  has  placed  Monet  at  the  head 
of  the  school;  his  pictures  command  high  prices, 
and  nothing  goes  now  with  the  erudite  American  but 
Monet’s  landscapes.  But  does  Monet  merit  this 
excessive  patronage,  and  if  so,  what  are  the  qualities 
in  his  work  that  make  it  superior  to  Sisley’s  and 
Pissaro’s  ? 

Sisley  is  less  decorative,  less  on  the  surface,  and 
though  he  follows  Monet  in  his  pursuit  of  colour, 
nature  is,  perhaps,  on  account  of  his  English  origin, 
something  more  to  him  than  a brilliant  appearance. 
It  has  of  course  happened  to  Monet  to  set  his  easel 
before  the  suburban  aspect  that  Sisley  loves,  but  he 
has  always  treated  it  rather  in  the  decorative  than  in 


36 


MONET,  SISLEY,  PISSARO, 


the  meditative  spirit.  He  has  never  been  touched  by 
the  humility  of  a lane’s  end,  and  the  sentiment  of  the 
humble  life  that  collects  there  has  never  appeared  on 
his  canvas.  Yet  Sisley,  being  more  in  sympathy 
with  such  nature,  has  often  been  able  to  produce  a 
superior  though  much  less  pretentious  picture  than 
the  ordinary  stereotyped  Monet.  But  if  Sisley  is 
more  meditative  than  Monet,  Pissaro  is  more  medi- 
tative than  either. 

Monet  had  arrived  at  his  style  before  I saw  any- 
thing of  his  work;  of  his  earlier  canvases  I know 
nothing.  Possibly  he  once  painted  in  the  Corot 
manner;  it  is  hardly  possible  that  he  should  not 
have  done  so.  However  this  may  bo,  Pissaro  did 
not  rid  himself  for  many  years  of  the  influence  of 
Corot.  His  earliest  pictures  were  all  composed  in 
pensive  greys  and  violets,  and  exhaled  the  weary  sad- 
ness of  tilth  and  grange  and  scant  orchard  trees. 
The  pale  road  winds  through  meagre  uplands,  and 
through  the  blown  and  gnarled  and  shiftless  fruit- 
trees  the  saddening  silhouette  of  the  town  drifts 
across  the  land.  The  violet  spaces  between  the 
houses  are  the  very  saddest,  and  the  spare  furrows 
are  patiently  drawn,  and  so  the  execution  is  in  har- 
mony with  and  accentuates  the  unutterable  mono- 
tony of  the  peasant’s  lot.  The  sky,  too,  is  vague  and 
empty,  and  out  of  its  deathlike,  creamy  hollow  the 
first  shadows  are  blown  into  the  pallid  face  of  a void 
evening.  The  picture  tells  of  the  melancholy  of 
ordinary  life,  of  our  poor  transitory  tenements,  our 
miserable  scrapings  among  the  little  mildew  that  has 
gathered  on  the  surface  of  an  insignificant  planet. 


AND  THE  DECADENCE. 


87 


I will  not  attempt  to  explain  why  the  grey-toned 
and  meditative  Pissaro  should  have  consented  to 
countenance  — I cannot  say  to  lead  (for,  unlike 
every  other  chef  cFecole , Pissaro  imitated  the  dis- 
ciples instead  of  the  disciples  imitating  Pissaro) — 
the  many  fantastic  revolutions  in  pictorial  art  which 
have  agitated  Montmartre  during  the  last  dozen 
years.  The  Pissaro  psychology  I must  leave  to 
take  care  of  itself,  confining  myself  strictly  to  the 
narrative  of  these  revolutions. 

Authority  for  the  broken  brushwork  of  Monet  is 
to  be  found  in  Manet’s  last  pictures,  and  I remember 
Manet’s  reply  when  I questioned  him  about  the  pure 
violet  shadows  which,  just  before  his  death,  he  was 
beginning  to  introduce  into  his  pictures.  “One 
year  one  paints  violet  and  people  scream,  and  the 
following  year  every  one  paints  a great  deal  more 
violet.”  If  Manet’s  answer  throws  no  light  whatever 
on  the  new  principle,  it  shows  very  clearly  the  direc- 
tion, if  not  the  goal,  towards  which  his  last  style  was 
moving.  But  perhaps  I am  speaking  too  cautiously, 
for  surely  broken  brushwork  and  violet  shadows  lead 
only  to  one  possible  goal — the  prismatic  colours. 

Manet  died,  and  this  side — and  this  side  only — of 
his  art  was  taken  up  by  Monet,  Sisley,  and  Renoir. 
Or  was  it  that  Manet  had  begun  to  yield  to  an  influ- 
ence— that  of  Monet,  Sisley,  and  Renoir — which  was 
just  beginning  to  make  itself  felt  ? Be  this  as  it  may, 
browns  and  blacks  disappeared  from  the  palettes  of 
those  who  did  not  wish  to  be  considered  Pecole  des 
beaux- arts,  et  en  plein.  Venetian  reds,  siennas,  and 
ochres  were  in  process  of  abandonment,  and  the 


88 


MONET,  SISLEY,  PISSARO, 


palette  came  to  be  composed  very  much  in  the 
following  fashion : violet,  white,  blue,  white,  green, 
white,  red,  white,  yellow,  white,  orange,  white — the 
three  primary  and  the  three  secondary  colours,  with 
white  placed  between  each,  so  as  to  keep  everything 
as  distinct  as  possible,  and  avoid  in  the  mixing  all 
soiling  of  the  tones.  Monet,  Sisley,  and  Renoir  con- 
tented themselves  with  the  abolition  of  all  blacks  and 
browns,  for  they  were  but  half-hearted  reformers,  and 
it  was  clearly  the  duty  of  those  who  came  after  to  rid 
the  palette  of  all  ochres,  siennas,  Venetian,  Indian, 
and  light  reds.  The  only  red  and  yellow  that  any 
one  who  was  not,  according  to  the  expression  of  the 
new  generation,  presque  du  Louvre , could  think  of 
permitting  on  his  palette  were  vermilion  and  cadmium. 
The  first  of  this  new  generation  was  Seurat,  Seurat 
begot  Signac,  Signac  begot  Anquetin,  and  Anquetin 
has  begotten  quite  a galaxy  of  lesser  lights,  of  whom 
I shall  not  speak  in  this  article — of  whom  it  is  not 
probable  that  I shall  ever  speak. 

It  was  in  an  exhibition  held  in  Rue  Lafitte  in  ’8i 
or  ’82  that  the  new  method,  which  comprised  two 
most  radical  reforms — an  execution  achieved  entirely 
with  the  point  of  the  brush  and  the  division  of  the 
tones — was  proclaimed.  Or  should  I say  reforma- 

tion, for  the  execution  by  a series  of  dots  is  implicit 
in  the  theory  of  the  division  of  the  tones?  How 
well  I remember  being  attracted  towards  an  end 
of  the  room,  which  was  filled  with  a series  of  most 
singular  pictures.  There  must  have  been  at  least  ten 
pictures  of  yachts  in  full  sail.  They  were  all  drawn 
in  profile,  they  were  all  painted  in  the  very  clearest 


AND  THE  DECADENCE. 


89 


tints,  white  skies  and  white  sails  hardly  relieved  or 
explained  with  shadow,  and  executed  in  a series  of 
minute  touches,  like  mosaic.  Ten  pictures  of  yachts 
all  in  profile,  all  in  full  sail,  all  unrelieved  by  any 
attempt  at  atmospheric  effect,  all  painted  in  a series 
of  little  dots ! 

Great  as  was  my  wonderment,  it  was  tenfold 
increased  on  discovering  that  only  five  of  these 
pictures  were  painted  by  the  new  man,  Seurat,  whose 
name  was  unknown  to  me;  the  other  five  were 
painted  by  my  old  friend  Pissaro.  My  first  thought 
went  for  the  printer ; my  second  for  some  fumisterie 
on  the  part  of  the  hanging  committee,  the  intention 
of  which  escaped  me.  The  pictures  were  hung  low, 
so  I went  down  on  my  knees  and  examined  the  dotting 
in  the  pictures  signed  Seurat,  and  the  dotting  in 
those  that  were  signed  Pissaro.  After  a strict  examin- 
ation I was  able  to  detect  some  differences,  and  I 
began  to  recognise  the  well-known  touch  even  through 
this  most  wild  and  most  wonderful  transformation. 
Yes,  owing  to  a long  and  intimate  acquaintance  with 
Pissaro  and  his  work,  I could  distinguish  between 
him  and  Seurat,  but  to  the  ordinary  visitor  their 
pictures  were  identical. 

Many  claims  are  put  forward,  but  the  best  founded 
is  that  of  Seurat;  and,  so  far  as  my  testimony  may 
serve  his  greater  honour  and  glory,  I do  solemnly 
declare  that  I believe  him  to  have  been  the  original 
discoverer  of  the  division  of  the  tones. 

A tone  is  a combination  of  colours.  In  Nature 
colours  are  separate ; they  act  and  react  one  on  the 
other,  and  so  create  in  the  eye  the  illusion  of  a 


9° 


MONET,  SISLEY,  PISSARO, 


mixture  of  various  colours — in  other  words,  of  a tone. 
But  if  the  human  eye  can  perform  this  prodigy  when 
looking  on  colour  as  evolved  through  the  spectacle  of 
the  world,  why  should  not  the  eye  be  able  to  perform 
the  same  prodigy  when  looking  on  colour  as  displayed 
over  the  surface  of  a canvas  ? Nature  does  not  mix 
her  colours  to  produce  a tone ; and  the  reason  of  the 
marked  discrepancy  existing  between  Nature  and  the 
Louvre  is  owing  to  the  fact  that  painters  have  hitherto 
deemed  it  a necessity  to  prepare  a tone  on  the  palette 
before  placing  it  on  the  canvas ; whereas  it  is  quite 
clear  that  the  only  logical  and  reasonable  method  is 
to  first  complete  the  analysis  of  the  tone,  and  then  to 
place  the  colours  which  compose  the  tone  in  dots 
over  the  canvas,  varying  the  size  of  the  dots  and  the 
distance  between  the  dots  according  to  the  depth  of 
colour  desired  by  the  painter. 

If  this  be  done  truly — that  is  to  say,  if  the  first 
analysis  of  the  tones  be  a correct  analysis — and  if 
the  spectator  places  himself  at  the  right  distance 
from  the  picture,  there  will  happen  in  his  eyes 
exactly  the  same  blending  of  colour  as  happens 
in  them  when  they  are  looking  upon  Nature.  An 
example  will,  I think,  make  my  meaning  clear.  We 
are  in  a club  smoking-room.  The  walls  are  a rich 
ochre.  Three  or  four  men  sit  between  us  and  the 
wall,  and  the  blue  smoke  of  their  cigars  fills  the 
middle  air.  In  painting  this  scene  it  would  be  usual 
to  prepare  the  tone  on  the  palette,  and  the  pre- 
paration would  be  somewhat  after  this  fashion : 
ochre  warmed  with  a little  red — a pale  violet  tinted 
with  lake  for  the  smoke  of  the  cigars. 


AND  THE  DECADENCE. 


91 


But  such  a method  of  painting  would  seem  to 
Seurat  and  Signac  to  be  artless,  primitive,  unscientific, 
childish,  presque  du  Louvre — above  all,  unscientific. 
They  would  say,  “ Decompose  the  tone.  That  tone 
is  composed  of  yellow,  white,  and  violet  turning 
towards  lake;”  and,  having  satisfied  themselves  in 
what  proportions,  they  would  dot  their  canvases  over 
with  pure  yellow  and  pure  white,  the  interspaces 
being  filled  in  with  touches  of  lake  and  violet, 
numerous  where  the  smoke  is  thickest,  diminishing 
in  number  where  the  wreaths  vanish  into  air.  Or  let 
us  suppose  that  it  is  a blue  slated  roof  that  the  dottist 
wishes  to  paint.  He  first  looks  behind  him,  to  see 
what  is  the  colour  of  the  sky.  It  is  an  orange  sky. 
He  therefore  represents  the  slates  by  means  of  blue 
dots  intermixed  with  orange  and  white  dots,  and — 
ah  ! I am  forgetting  an  important  principle  in  the  new 
method — the  complementary  colour  which  the  eye 
imagines,  but  does  not  see.  What  is  the  comple- 
mentary colour  of  blue,  grey,  and  orange?  Green. 
Therefore  green  must  be  introduced  into  the  roof; 
otherwise  the  harmony  would  be  incomplete,  and 
therefore  in  a measure  discordant. 

Needless  to  say  that  a sky  painted  in  this  way  does 
not  bear  looking  into.  Close  to  the  spectator  it 
presents  the  appearance  of  a pard;  but  when  he 
reaches  the  proper  distance  there  is  no  denying  that 
the  colours  do  in  a measure  unite  and  assume  a tone 
more  or  less  equivalent  to  the  tone  that  would  have 
been  obtained  by  blending  the  colours  on  the  palette. 
“But,”  cry  Seurat  and  Signac,  “an  infinitely  purer  and 
more  beautiful  tone  than  could  have  been  obtained  by 


92 


MONET,  SISLEY,  PISSARO, 


any  artificial  blending  of  the  colours  on  the  palette 
— a tone  that  is  the  exact  equivalent  of  one  of 
Nature’s  tones,  for  it  has  been  obtained  in  exactly 
the  same  way.” 

Truly  a subject  difficult  to  write  about  in  English. 
Perhaps  it  is  one  that  should  not  be  attempted  any- 
where except  in  a studio  with  closed  doors.  But  if  I 
did  not  make  some  attempt  to  explain  this  matter,  I 
should  leave  my  tale  of  the  decline  and  fall  of  French 
art  in  the  nineteenth  century  incomplete. 

Roughly  speaking,  these  new  schools — the  sym- 
bolists, the  decadents,  the  dividers  of  tones,  the 
professors  of  the  rhythm  of  gesture — date  back  about 
ten  years.  For  ten  years  the  division  of  the  tones 
has  been  the  subject  of  discussion  in  the  aesthetic 
circles  of  Montmartre.  And  when  we  penetrate 
further  into  the  matter — or,  to  be  more  exact,  as  we 
ascend  into  the  higher  regions  of  La  Butte — we  find 
the  elect,  who  form  so  stout  a phalanx  against  the 
philistinism  of  the  Louvre,  themselves  subdivided 
into  numerous  sections,  and  distraught  with  inter- 
necine feuds  concerning  the  principle  of  the  art 
which  they  pursue  with  all  the  vehemence  that 
Veronese  green  and  cadmium  yellow  are  capable  of. 
From  ten  at  night  till  two  in  the  morning  the 
brasseries  of  the  Butte  are  in  session.  Ah ! the 
interminable  bocks  and  the  reek  of  the  cigars,  until 
at  last  a hesitating  exodus  begins.  An  exhausted 
proprietor  at  the  head  of  his  waiters,  crazed  with 
sleepiness,  eventually  succeeds  in  driving  these 
noctambulist  apostles  into  the  streets. 

Then  the  nervous  lingering  at  the  corner ! The 


AND  THE  DECADENCE . 


93 


disputants,  anxious  and  yet  loth  to  part,  say  good- 
bye, each  regretting  that  he  had  not  urged  some  fresh 
argument — an  argument  which  had  just  occurred  to 
him,  and  which,  he  feels  sure,  would  have  reduced 
his  opponent  to  impotent  silence.  Sometimes  the 
partings  are  stormy.  The  question  of  the  introduc- 
tion of  the  complementary  colours  into  the  frames  of 
the  pictures  is  always  a matter  of  strife,  and  results 
in  much  nonconformity.  Several  are  strongly  in 
favour  of  carrying  the  complementary  colours  into 
the  picture-frames.  “If  you  admit,”  says  one,  “that 
to  paint  a blue  roof  with  an  orange  sky  shining  on 
it  you  must  introduce  the  complementary  colour 
green — which  the  spectator  does  not  see,  but  imagines 
— there  is  excellent  reason  why  you  should  dot  the 
frame  all  over  with  green,  for  the  picture  and  its 
frame  are  not  two  things,  but  one  thing.”  “But,” 
cries  his  opponent,  “ there  is  a finality  in  all  things ; 
if  you  carry  your  principle  out  to  the  bitter  end,  the 
walls  as  well  as  the  frame  should  be  dotted  with  the 
complementary  colours,  the  staircases  too,  the  streets 
likewise ; and  if  we  pursue  the  complementaries  into 
the  street,  who  shall  say  where  we  are  to  stop  ? Why 
stop  at  all,  unless  the  neighbours  protest  that  we  are 
interfering  with  their  complementaries  ? ” 

The  schools  headed  by  Signac  and  Anquetin  com- 
prise numerous  disciples  and  adherents.  They  do 
not  exhibit  in  the  Salon  or  in  the  Champ  de  Mars ; 
but  that  is  because  they  disdain  to  do  so.  They 
hold  exhibitions  of  their  own,  and  their  picture-dealers 
trade  only  in  their  works  and  in  those  belonging  to 
or  legitimately  connected  with  the  new  schools. 


94  MONET,  SISLEY,  PISSARO , 

If  I have  succeeded  in  explaining  the  principle  of 
coloration  employed  by  these  painters,  I must  have 
excited  some  curiosity  in  the  reader  to  see  these 
scientifically-painted  pictures.  To  say  that  they  are 
strange,  absurd,  ridiculous,  conveys  no  sensation  of 
their  extravagances ; and  I think  that  even  an  elabo- 
rate description  would  miss  its  mark.  For,  in  truth, 
the  pictures  merit  no  such  attention.  It  is  only 
needful  to  tell  the  reader  that  they  fail  most  conspicu- 
ously at  the  very  point  where  it  was  their  mission  to 
succeed.  Instead  of  excelling  in  brilliancy  of  colour 
the  pictures  painted  in  the  ordinary  way,  they  present 
the  most  complete  spectacle  of  discoloration  possible 
to  imagine. 

Yet  Signac  is  a man  of  talent,  and  in  an  ex- 
hibition of  pictures  which  I visited  last  May  I saw 
a wide  bay,  two  rocky  headlands  extending  far  into 
the  sea,  and  this  offing  was  filled  with  a multitude  of 
gull-like  sails.  There  was  in  it  a vibration  of  light, 
such  an  effect  as  a mosaic  composed  of  dim-coloured 
but  highly  polished  stones  might  produce.  I can  say 
no  good  word,  however,  for  his  portrait  of  a gentle- 
man holding  his  hat  in  one  hand  and  a flower  in  the 
other.  This  picture  formulated  a still  newer  aestheti- 
cism— the  rhythm  of  gesture.  For,  according  to 
Signac,  the  raising  of  the  face  and  hands  expresses 
joy,  the  depression  of  the  face  and  hands  denotes 
sadness.  Therefore,  to  denote  the  melancholy  tem- 
perament of  his  sitter,  Signac  represented  him  as 
being  hardly  able  to  lift  his  hat  to  his  head  or  the 
flower  to  his  button-hole.  The  figure  was  painted, 
as  usual,  in  dots  of  pure  colour  lifted  from  the  palette 


AND  THE  DECADENCE . 


95 


with  the  point  of  the  brush;  the  complementary 
colours  in  duplicate  bands  curled  up  the  background. 
This  was  considered  by  the  disciples  to  be  an 
important  innovation ; and  the  effect,  it  is  needless 
to  say,  was  gaudy,  if  not  neat. 

A theory  of  Anquetin’s  is  that  wherever  the 
painter  is  painting,  his  retina  must  still  hold  some 
sensation  of  the  place  he  has  left ; therefore  there  is 
in  every  scene  not  only  the  scene  itself,  but  remem- 
brance of  the  scene  that  preceded  it.  This  is  not 
quite  clear,  is  it  ? No.  But  I think  I can  make  it 
clear.  He  who  walks  out  of  a brilliantly  lighted 
saloon — that  is  to  say,  he  who  walks  out  of  yellow — 
sees  the  other  two  primary  colours,  red  and  blue; 
in  other  words,  he  sees  violet  Therefore  Anquetin 
paints  the  street,  and  everything  in  it,  violet — 
boots,  trousers,  hats,  coats,  lamp-posts,  paving-stones, 
and  the  tail  of  the  cat  disappearing  under  the  porte 
cochere . 

But  if  in  my  description  of  these  schools  I have 
conveyed  the  idea  of  stupidity  or  ignorance  I have 
failed  egregiously.  These  young  men  are  all  highly 
intelligent  and  keenly  alive  to  art,  and  their  doings 
are  not  more  vain  than  the  hundred  and  one  artistic 
notions  which  have  been  undermining  the  art-sense  of 
the  French  and  English  nations  for  the  last  twenty 
years.  What  I have  described  is  not  more  foolish 
than  the  stippling  at  South  Kensington  or  the  drawing 
by  the  masses  at  Julien’s.  The  theory  of  the  division 
of  the  tones  is  no  more  foolish  than  the  theory  of 
plei?i  air  or  the  theory  of  the  square  brushwork ; it  is 
as  foolish,  but  not  a jot  more  foolish. 


g6 


MONET,  SISLEY,  PISSARO. 


Great  art  dreams,  imagines,  sees,  feels,  expresses 
— reasons  never.  It  is  only  in  times  of  woful 
decadence,  like  the  present,  that  the  bleating  of  the 
schools  begins  to  be  heard;  and  although,  to  the 
ignorant,  one  method  may  seem  less  ridiculous  than 
another,  all  methods — I mean,  all  methods  that  are 
not  part  and  parcel  of  the  pictorial  intuition — are 
equally  puerile  and  ridiculous.  The  separation  of  the 
method  of  expression  from  the  idea  to  be  expressed  is 
the  sure  sign  of  decadence.  France  is  now  all  deca- 
dence. In  the  Champ  de  Mars,  as  in  the  Salon,  the 
man  of  the  hour  is  he  who  has  invented  the  last  trick 
in  subject  or  treatment. 

France  has  produced  great  artists  in  quick  succes- 
sion. Think  of  all  the  great  names,  beginning  with 
Ingres  and  ending  with  Degas,  and  wonder  if  you  can 
that  France  has  at  last  entered  on  a period  of  artistic 
decadence.  For  the  last  sixty  years  the  work  done 
in  literary  and  pictorial  art  has  been  immense;  the 
soil  has  been  worked  along  and  across,  in  every  direc- 
tion ; and  for  many  a year  nothing  will  come  to  us 
from  France  but  the  bleat  of  the  scholiast. 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 

That  nearly  all  artists  dislike  and  despise  the  Royal 
Academy  is  a matter  of  common  knowledge.  Whether 
with  reason  or  without  is  a matter  of  opinion,  but  the 
existence  of  an  immense  fund  of  hate  and  contempt 
of  the  Academy  is  not  denied.  From  Glasgow  to 
Cornwall,  wherever  a group  of  artists  collects,  there 
hangs  a gathering  and  a darkening  sky  of  hate.  True, 
the  position  of  the  Academy  seems  to  be  impregnable; 
and  even  if  these  clouds  should  break  into  storm  the 
Academy  would  be  as  little  affected  as  the  rock  of 
Gibraltar  by  squall  or  tempest.  The  Academy  has 
successfully  resisted  a Royal  Commission,  and  a 
crusade  led  by  Mr.  Holman  Hunt  in  the  columns  of 
the  Times  did  not  succeed  in  obtaining  the  slightest 
measure  of  reform.  . . . Here  I might  consult  Blue- 
books  and  official  documents,  and  tell  the  history  of 
the  Academy ; but  for  the  purpose  of  this  article  the 
elementary  facts  in  every  one’s  possession  are  all  that 
are  necessary.  We  know  that  we  owe  the  Academy 
to  the  artistic  instincts  of  George  III.  It  was  he  who 
sheltered  it  in  Somerset  House,  and  when  Somerset 
House  was  turned  into  public  offices,  the  Academy 
was  bidden  to  Trafalgar  Square ; and  when  circum- 
stances again  compelled  the  authorities  to  ask  the 
Academy  to  move  on,  the  Academy,  posing  as  a 

7 


93 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 


public  body,  demanded  a site,  and  the  Academy  was 
given  one  worth  three  hundred  thousand  pounds. 
Thereon  the  Academy  erected  its  present  buildings, 
and  when  they  were  completed  the  Academy  declared 
itself  on  the  first  opportunity  to  be  no  public  body  at 
all,  but  a private  enterprise.  Then  why  the  site,  and 
why  the  Royal  charter  ? Mr.  Colman,  Mr.  Pears,  Mr. 
Reckitt  are  not  given  sites  worth  three  hundred 
thousand  pounds.  These  questions  have  often  been 
asked,  and  to  them  the  Academy  has  always  an 
excellent  answer.  “ The  site  has  been  granted,  and 
we  have  erected  buildings  upon  it  worth  a hundred 
thousand  pounds  ; get  rid  of  us  you  cannot.” 

The  position  of  the  Academy  is  as  impregnable  as 
the  rock  of  Gibraltar ; it  is  as  well  advertised  as  the 
throne  itself,  and  the  income  derived  from  the  sale  of 
the  catalogues  alone  is  enormous.  Then  the  Academy 
has  the  handling  of  the  Chantrey  Bequest  Funds, 
which  it  does  not  fail  to  turn  to  its  own  advantage  by 
buying  pictures  of  Academicians,  which  do  not  sell  in 
the  open  market,  at  extravagant  prices,  or  purchasing 
pictures  by  future  Academicians,  and  so  fostering, 
strengthening,  and  imposing  on  the  public  the  standard 
of  art  which  obtains  in  Academic  circles.  Such,  in  a 
few  brief  words,  is  the  institution  which  controls  and 
in  a large  measure  directs  the  art  of  this  country. 
But  though  I come  with  no  project  to  obtain  its 
dissolution,  it  seems  to  me  interesting  to  consider  the 
causes  of  the  hatred  of  the  Academy  with  which 
artistic  England  is  saturated,  oftentimes  convulsed; 
and  it  may  be  well  to  ask  if  any  institution,  however 
impregnable,  can  continue  to  defy  public  opinion,  if 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 


99 


any  sovereignty,  however  fortified  by  wealth  and 
buttressed  by  prescription,  can  continue  to  ignore 
and  outrage  the  opinions  of  its  subjects  ? 

The  hatred  of  artistic  England  for  the  Academy 
proceeds  from  the  knowledge  that  the  Academy  is  no 
true  centre  of  art,  but  a mere  commercial  enterprise 
protected  and  subventioned  by  Government.  In 
recent  years  every  shred  of  disguise  has  been  cast 
off,  and  it  has  become  patent  to  every  one  that  the 
Academy  is  conducted  on  as  purely  commercial 
principles  as  any  shop  in  the  Tottenham  Court  Road. 
For  it  is  impossible  to  suppose  that  Mr.  Orchardson 
and  Mr.  Watts  do  not  know  that  Mr.  Leader’s  land- 
scapes are  like  tea-trays,  that  Mr.  Dicksee’s  figures  are 
like  bon-bon  boxes,  and  that  Mr.  Herkomer’s  portraits 
are  like  German  cigars.  But  apparently  the  R.A.s 
are  merely  concerned  to  follow  the  market,  and  they 
elect  the  men  whose  pictures  sell  best  in  the  City. 
City  men  buy  the  productions  of  Mr.  Herkomer,  Mr. 
Dicksee,  Mr.  Leader,  and  Mr.  Goodall.  Little  harm 
would  be  done  to  art  if  the  money  thus  expended 
meant  no  more  than  filling  stockbrokers’  drawing- 
rooms with  bad  pictures,  but  the  uncontrolled  exercise 
of  the  stockbroker’s  taste  in  art  means  the  election 
of  a vast  number  of  painters  to  the  Academy,  and 
election  to  the  Academy  means  certain  affixes,  R.A. 
and  A.,  and  these  signs  are  meant  to  direct  opinion. 

For  when  the  ordinary  visitor  thinks  a picture  very 
bad,  and  finds  R.A.  or  A.  after  the  painter’s  name,  he 
concludes  that  he  must  be  mistaken,  and  so  a false 
standard  of  art  is  created  in  the  public  mind.  But 
though  Mr.  Orchardson,  Sir  John  Millais,  Sir  Frederick 


100 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 


Leighton,  and  Mr.  Watts  have  voted  for  the  City  mer- 
chants’ nominees,  it  would  be  a mistake  to  suppose 
that  they  did  not  know  for  whom  they  should  have 
voted.  It  is  to  be  questioned  if  there  be  an  R.  A.  now 
alive  who  would  dare  to  deny  that  Mr.  Whistler  is  a very 
great  painter.  It  was  easy  to  say  he  was  not  in  the 
old  days  when,  under  the  protection  of  Mr.  Ruskin, 
the  R.A.s  went  in  a body  and  gave  evidence  against 
him.  But  now  even  Mr.  Jones,  R.A.,  would  not 
venture  to  repeat  the  opinion  he  expressed  about  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  nocturnes.  Time,  it  is 
true,  has  silenced  the  foolish  mouth  of  the  R.A.,  but 
time  has  not  otherwise  altered  him ; and  there  is  as 
little  chance  to-day  as  there  was  twenty  years  ago  of 
Mr.  Whistler  being  elected  an  Academician. 

No  difference  exists  even  in  Academic  circles  as  to 
the  merits  of  Mr.  Albert  Moore’s  work.  Many  Academi- 
cians will  freely  acknowledge  that  his  non-election  is 
a very  grave  scandal ; they  will  tell  you  that  they  have 
done  everything  to  get  him  elected,  and  have  given  up 
the  task  in  despair.  Mr.  Whistler  and  Mr.  Albert 
Moore,  the  two  greatest  artists  living  in  England,  will 
never  be  elected  Academicians  ; and  artistic  England 
is  asked  to  acquiesce  in  this  grave  scandal,  and  also 
in  many  minor  scandals  : the  election  of  Mr.  Dicksee 
in  place  of  Mr.  Henry  Moore,  and  Mr.  Stanhope 
Forbes  in  place  of  Mr.  Swan  or  Mr.  John  Sargent ! 
No  one  thinks  Mr.  Dicksee  as  capable  an  artist  as 
Mr.  Henry  Moore,  and  no  one  thinks  Mr.  Stanhope 
Forbes  as  great  an  artist  as  Mr.  Swan  or  Mr.  Sargent. 
Then  why  were  they  elected  ? Because  the  men  who 
represent  most  emphatically  the  taste  of  the  City 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 


IOI 


have  become  so  numerous  of  late  years  in  the 
Academy  that  they  are  able  to  keep  out  any  one 
whose  genius  would  throw  a doubt  on  the  common- 
place ideal  which  they  are  interested  in  upholding. 
Mr.  Alma  Tadema  would  not  care  to  confer  such 
a mark  of  esteem  as  the  affix  R.A.  on  any  painter 
practising  an  art  which,  when  understood,  would 
involve  hatred  of  the  copyplate  antiquity  which  he 
supplies  to  the  public. 

This  explanation  seems  incredible,  I admit,  but  no 
other  explanation  is  possible,  for  I repeat  that  the  Acad- 
emicians do  not  themselves  deny  the  genius  of  the  men 
they  have  chosen  to  ignore.  So  we  find  the  Academy 
as  a body  working  on  exactly  the  same  lines  as  the 
individual  R.A.,  whose  one  ambition  is  to  extend 
his  connection,  please  his  customers,  and  frustrate 
competition  ; and  just  as  the  capacity  of  the  individual 
R.A.  declines  when  the  incentive  is  money,  so  does 
the  corporate  body  lose  its  strength,  and  its  hold  on 
the  art  instincts  of  the  nation  relaxes  when  its  aim 
becomes  merely  mercenary  enterprise. 

If  Sir  John  Millais,  Sir  Frederick  Leighton,  Mr. 
Orchardson,  Mr.  Hook,  and  Mr.  Watts  were  to  die  to- 
morrow, their  places  could  be  filled  by  men  who  are  not 
and  never  will  be  in  the  Academy;  but  among  the  Asso- 
ciates there  is  no  name  that  does  not  suggest  a long  de- 
cline : Mr.  Macbeth,  Mr.  Leader,  Mr.  David  Murray, 
Mr.  Stanhope  Forbes,  Mr.  J.  MacWhirter.  And  are 
the  coming  Associates  Mr.  Hacker,  Mr.  Shannon,  Mr. 
Solomon,  Mr.  Alfred  East,  Mr.  Bramley?  Mr.  Swan 
has  been  passed  over  so  many  times  that  his  election 
is  beginning  to  seem  doubtful.  For  very  shame’s 


102 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 


sake  the  elder  Academicians  may  bring  their  influence 
and  insist  on  his  election  ; but  the  City  merchants’ 
nominees  are  very  strong,  and  will  not  have  him  if 
they  can  help  it.  They  may  yield  to  Mr.  Swan,  but 
no  single  inch  further  will  it  be  possible  to  get  them 
to  go.  Mr.  Mouat  Loudan,  Mr.  Lavery,  Mr.  Mark 
Fisher,  and  Mr.  Peppercorn  have  no  chance  soever. 
Mr.  Mouat  Loudan,  was  rejected  this  year.  Mr. 
Lavery’s  charming  portrait  of  Lord  McLaren’s 
daughters  was  still  more  shamefully  treated;  it  was 
“skied.”  Mr.  Mark  Fisher,  most  certainly  our 
greatest  living  landscape-painter,  had  his  picture 
refused;  and  Mr.  Reid,  a man  who  has  received 
medals  in  every  capital  in  Europe,  has  had  his 
principal  picture  hung  just  under  the  ceiling. 

On  varnishing-day  Mr.  Reid  challenged  Mr.  Dicksee 
to  give  a reason  for  this  disgraceful  hanging;  he  defied 
him  to  say  that  he  thought  the  pictures  underneath 
were  better  pictures ; and  it  is  as  impossible  for  me 
as  it  was  for  Mr.  Dicksee  to  deny  that  Mr.  Reid’s 
picture  is  the  best  picture  in  Room  6.  Mr.  Pepper- 
corn, another  well-known  artist,  had  his  picture 
rejected.  It  is  now  hanging  in  the  Goupil  Galleries. 
I do  not  put  it  forward  as  a masterpiece,  but  I do 
say  that  it  deserved  a place  in  any  exhibition,  and 
if  I had  a friend  on  the  Hanging  Committee  I 
would  ask  him  to  point  to  the  landscapes  on  the 
Academy  walls  which  he  considers  better  than  Mr. 
Peppercorn’s. 

Often  a reactionary  says,  “ Name  the  good  pictures 
that  have  been  rejected ; where  can  I see  them  ? I 
want  to  see  these  masterpieces,”  etc.  The  reactionary 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 


103 


has  generally  the  best  of  the  argument.  It  is  difficult 
to  name  the  pictures  that  have  been  refused ; they  are 
the  unknown  quantity.  Moreover,  the  pictures  that 
are  usually  refused  are  tentative  efforts,  and  not 
mature  work.  But  this  year  the  opponents  of  the 
Academy  are  able  to  cite  some  very  substantial  facts 
in  support  of  their  position,  a portrait  by  our  most 
promising  portrait-painter  and  a landscape  by  the  best 
landscape-painter  alive  in  England  having  been  re- 
jected. The  picture  of  the  farm-yard  which  Mr. 
Fisher  exhibited  at  the  New  English  Art  Club  last 
autumn  would  not  be  out  of  place  in  the  National 
Gallery.  I do  not  say  that  the  rejected  picture  is  as 
good — I have  not  seen  the  rejected  picture — but  I do 
say  that  Mr.  Fisher  could  not  paint  as  badly  as  nine- 
tenths  of  the  landscapes  hanging  in  the  Academy  if 
he  tried. 

The  Academy  is  sinking  steadily;  never  was  it 
lower  than  this  year ; next  year  a few  fine  works  may 
crop  up,  but  they  will  be  accidents,  and  will  not  affect 
the  general  tendency  of  the  exhibitions  nor  the  direc- 
tion in  which  the  Academy  is  striving  to  lead  English 
art.  Under  the  guidanceship  of  the  Academy  English 
art  has  lost  all  that  charming  naivete  and  simplicity 
which  was  so  long  its  distinguishing  mark.  At  an 
Academy  banquet,  anything  but  the  most  genial 
optimism  would  be  out  of  place,  and  yet  Sir  Frederick 
Leighton  could  not  but  allude  to  the  disintegrating 
influence  of  French  art.  True,  in  the  second  part  of 
the  sentence  he  assured  his  listeners  that  the  danger 
was  more  imaginary  than  real,  and  he  hoped  that  with 
wider  knowledge,  etc.  But  if  no  danger  need  be 


io4  OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 

apprehended,  why  did  Sir  Frederick  trouble  to  raise 
the  question?  And  if  he  apprehended  danger  and 
would  save  us  from  it,  why  did  he  choose  to  ask  his 
friend  M.  Bouguereau  to  exhibit  at  the  Academy? 

The  allusion  in  Sir  Frederick’s  speech  to  French 
methods,  and  the  exhibition  of  a picture  by  M. 
Bouguereau  in  the  Academy,  is  strangely  significant. 
For  is  not  M.  Bouguereau  the  chief  exponent  of  the 
art  which  Sir  Frederick  ventures  to  suggest  may  prove 
a disintegrating  influence  in  our  art? — has  proven 
would  be  a more  correct  phrase.  Let  him  who 
doubts  compare  the  work  of  almost  any  of  the  elder 
Academicians  with  the  work  of  those  who  practise 
the  square  brushwork  of  the  French  school.  Com- 
pare, for  instance,  Sir  Frederick’s  “ Garden  of  the 
Hesperides  ” with  Mr.  Solomon’s  “ Orpheus,”  and 
then  you  will  appreciate  the  gulf  that  separates  the 
elder  Academicians  from  the  men  already  chosen  and 
marked  out  for  future  Academicians.  And  him  whom 
this  illustration  does  not  convince  I will  ask  to  com- 
pare Mr.  Hacker’s  “ Annunciation  ” with  any  picture 
by  Mr.  Frith,  or  Mr.  Faed,  I will  even  go  so  far  as 
to  say  with  any  work  by  Mr.  Sidney  Cooper,  an  octo- 
genarian, now  nearer  his  ninetieth  than  his  eightieth 
year. 

It  would  have  been  better  if  Sir  Frederick  had 
told  the  truth  boldly  at  the  Academy  banquet.  He 
knows  that  a hundred  years  will  hardly  suffice  to 
repair  the  mischief  done  by  this  detestable  French 
painting,  this  mechanical  drawing  and  modelling, 
built  up  systematically,  and  into  which  nothing  of  the 
artist’s  sensibility  may  enter.  Sir  Frederick  hinted 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS, 


105 


the  truth,  and  I do  not  think  it  will  displease  him  that 
I should  say  boldly  what  he  was  minded  but  did  not 
dare  to  say.  The  high  position  he  occupies  did  not 
allow  him  to  go  further  than  he  did ; the  society  of 
which  he  is  president  is  now  irreparably  committed  to 
Anglo-French  art,  and  has,  by  every  recent  election, 
bound  itself  to  uphold  and  impose  this  false  and 
foreign  art  upon  the  nation. 

Out  of  the  vast  array  of  portraits  and  subject- 
pictures  painted  in  various  styles  and  illustrating 
every  degree  of  ignorance,  stupidity,  and  false  edu- 
cation, one  thing  really  comes  home  to  the  careful 
observer,  and  that  is,  the  steady  obliteration  of  all 
English  feeling  and  mode  of  thought.  The  younger 
men  practise  an  art  purged  of  all  nationality. 
England  lingers  in  the  elder  painters,  and  though 
the  representation  is  often  inadequate,  the  English 
pictures  are  pleasanter  than  the  mechanical  art  which 
has  spread  from  Paris  all  over  Europe,  blotting  out 
in  its  progress  all  artistic  expression  of  racial  instincts 
and  mental  characteristics.  Nothing,  for  instance, 
can  be  more  primitive,  more  infantile  in  execution, 
than  Mr.  Leslie’s  “ Rose  Queen.”  But  it  seems  to 
me  superficial  criticism  to  pull  it  to  pieces,  for  after 
all  it  suggests  a pleasant  scene,  a stairway  full  of  girls 
in  white  muslin ; and  who  does  not  like  pretty 
girls  dressed  in  white  muslin  ? And  Mr.  Leslie 

spares  us  the  boredom  of  odious  and  sterile  French 
pedantry. 

Mr.  Waterhouse’s  picture  of  “ Circe  Poisoning 
the  Sea”  is  an  excellent  example  of  professional 
French  painting.  The  drawing  is  planned  out  geo- 


IO 6 OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 

metrically,  the  modelling  is  built  up  mechanically. 
The  brush,  filled  with  thick  paint,  works  like  a trowel. 
In  the  hands  of  the  Dutch  and  Flemish  artists  the 
brush  was  in  direct  communication  with  the  brain, 
and  moved  slowly  or  rapidly,  changing  from  the 
broadest  and  most  emphatic  stroke  to  the  most 
delicate  and  fluent  touch  according  to  the  nature  of 
the  work.  But  here  all  is  square  and  heavy.  The 
colour  scheme,  the  blue  dress  and  the  green  water — 
how  theatrical,  how  its  richness  reeks  of  the  French 
studio ! How  cosmopolitan  and  pedantic  is  this  would- 
be  romantic  work ! 

But  can  we  credit  Mr.  Dicksee  with  any  artistic 
intention  in  the  picture  he  calls  “ Leila,7’  hanging  in 
the  next  room  ? I think  not.  Mr.  Dicksee  probably 
thought  that  having  painted  what  the  critics  would 
call  “somewhat  sad  subjects77  last  year,  it  would 
be  well  if  he  painted  something  distinctly  gay  this 
year.  A girl  in  a harem  struck  him  as  a subject  that 
would  please  every  one,  especially  if  he  gave  her  a 
pretty  face,  a pretty  dress,  and  posed  her  in  a graceful 
attitude.  A nice  bright  crimson  was  just  the  colour 
for  the  dress,  the  feet  he  might  leave  bare,  and  it 
would  be  well  to  draw  them  from  the  plaster  cast — a 
pair  of  pretty  feet  would  be  sure  to  find  favour  with 
the  populace.  It  is  impossible  to  believe  that  Mr. 
Dicksee  was  moved  by  any  deeper  thought  or  impres- 
sion when  he  painted  this  picture.  The  execution  is 
not  quite  so  childlike  and  bland  as  Mr.  Leslie’s ; it  is 
heavier  and  more  stodgy.  One  is  a cane  chair  from 
the  Tottenham  Court  Road,  the  other  is  a dining-room 
chair  from  the  Tottenham  Court  Road.  In  neither 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS.  to? 

does  any  trace  of  French  influence  appear,  and  both 
painters  are  City-elected  Academicians. 

A sudden  thought.  . . . Leader,  Fildes,  David 
Murray,  Peter  Graham,  Herkomer.  . . . Then  it 
is  not  the  City  that  favours  the  French  school, 
but  the  Academy  itself ! And  this  shows  how 
widely  tastes  may  differ,  yet  remain  equally  sun- 
dered from  good  taste.  I believe  the  north  and 
the  south  poles  are  equidistant  from  the  equator. 
Looking  at  Sir  Frederick  Leighton’s  picture,  entitled 
“At  the  Fountain,”  I am  forced  to  admit  that, 
regarded  as  mere  execution,  it  is  quite  as  intoler- 
ably bad  as  Mr.  Dicksee’s  “ Leila.”  And  yet  it  is 
not  so  bad  a picture,  because  Sir  Frederick’s  mind 
is  a higher  and  better-educated  mind  than  Mr. 
Dicksee’s ; and  therefore,  however  his  hand  may  fail 
him,  there  remains  a certain  habit  of  thought  which 
always,  even  when  worn  and  frayed,  preserves  some- 
thing of  its  original  aristocracy.  “ The  Sea  giving  up 
its  Dead  ” is  an  unpleasant  memory  of  Michael  Angelo. 
But  in  “ The  Garden  of  the  Hesperides  ” Sir  Frederick 
is  himself,  and  nothing  but  himself.  And  the  picture 
is  so  incontestably  the  work  of  an  artist  that  I 
cannot  bring  myself  to  inquire  too  closely  into  its 
shortcomings.  The  merit  of  the  picture  is  in  the 
arabesque,  which  is  charming  and  original.  The 
maidens  are  not  dancing,  but  sitting  round  their  tree. 
On  the  right  there  is  an  olive,  in  the  middle  the  usual 
strawberry-cream,  and  on  the  left  a purple  drapery. 
The  brown  water  in  the  foreground  balances  the  white 
sky  most  happily,  and  the  faces  of  the  women  recall 
our  best  recollections  of  Sir  Frederick’s  work.  In 


108  OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 

the  next  room — Room  3 — Mr.  Watts  exhibits  a 
very  incoherent  work  entitled  “ She  shall  be  called 
Woman.” 

The  subject  on  which  all  of  us  are  most  nearly 
agreed — painters’  critics  and  the  general  public — is 
the  very  great  talent  of  Mr.  G.  F.  Watts.  Even  the 
Chelsea  studios  unite  in  praising  him.  But  were  we 
ever  sincere  in  our  praise  of  him  as  we  are  sincere  in 
our  praise  of  Degas,  Whistler,  and  Manet?  And 
lately  have  we  not  begun  to  suspect  our  praise  to-day 
is  a mere  clinging  to  youthful  admirations  which  have 
no  root  in  our  present  knowledge  and  aestheticisms  ? 
Perhaps  the  time  has  come  to  say  what  we  do  really 
think  of  Mr.  Watts.  We  think  that  his  very 
earliest  pictures  show,  occasionally,  the  hand  of 
a painter;  but  for  the  last  thirty  years  Mr.  Watts 
seems  to  have  been  undergoing  transformation,  and  we 
see  him  now  as  a sort  of  cross  between  an  alchemist 
of  old  time  and  a book  collector — his  left  hand 
fumbling  among  the  reds  and  blues  of  the  old 
masters,  his  right  turning  the  pages  of  a dusty 
folio  in  search  of  texts  for  illustration ; a sort  of  a 
modern  Veronese  in  treacle  and  gingerbread.  To 
judge  him  by  what  he  exhibits  this  year  would 
not  be  just.  We  will  select  for  criticism  the 
celebrated  portrait  of  Mrs.  Percy  Wyndham — in 
which  he  has  obviously  tried  to  realise  all  his  artistic 
ideals. 

The  first  thing  that  strikes  me  on  looking  on  this 
picture  is  the  too  obvious  intention  of  the  painter 
to  invent  something  that  could  not  go  out  of  fashion. 
On  sitting  down  to  paint  this  picture  the  painter’s 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 


109 


mind  seems  to  have  been  disturbed  with  ail  sorts 
of  undetermined  notions  concerning  the  eternal 
Beautiful,  and  the  formula  discovered  by  the  Venetian 
for  its  complete  presentation.  “ The  Venetians  gave 
us  the  eternal  Beautiful  as  civilisation  presents  it. 
Why  not  select  in  modern  life  all  that  corresponds 
to  the  Venetian  formulae;  why  not  profit  by  their 
experience  in  the  selection  I am  called  upon  to 
make  ? ” 

So  do  I imagine  the  painter’s  desire,  and  certainly 
the  picture  is  from  end  to  end  its  manifestation. 
Laurel  leaves  form  a background  for  the  head,  and 
a large  flower-vase  is  in  the  right-hand  corner,  and  a 
balustrade  is  on  the  right;  and  this  Anglo-Venetian 
lady  is  attired  in  a rich  robe,  brown,  with  green 
shades,  and  heavily  embroidered ; her  elbow  is  leaned 
on  a pedestal  in  a manner  that  shows  off  the  pleni- 
tudes of  the  forearm,  and  for  pensive  dignity  the  hand 
is  raised  to  the  face.  It  is  a noble  portrait,  and  tells 
the  story  of  a lifelong  devotion  to  art,  and  yet  it  is 
difficult  to  escape  from  the  suspicion  that  we  are 
not  very  much  interested,  and  that  we  find  its  com- 
pound beauty  a little  insipid.  In  avoiding  the 
fashion  of  his  day  Mr.  Watts  seems  to  me  to  have 
slipped  into  an  abstraction.  The  mere  leaving  out 
every  accent  that  marks  a dress  as  belonging  to  a 
particular  epoch  does  not  save  it  from  going  out  of 
fashion.  It  is  in  the  execution  that  the  great  artists 
annihilated  the  whim  of  temporary  taste,  and  made 
the  hoops  of  old  time  beautiful,  however  slim  the 
season’s  fashions.  To  be  of  all  time  the  artist  must 
begin  by  being  of  his  own  time;  and  if  he  would 


no 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 


find  the  eternal  type  he  must  seek  it  in  his  own 
parish. 

The  painters  of  old  Venice  were  entirely  concerned 
with  Videe plastique , but  on  this  point  the  art  of  Mr. 
Watts  is  a repudiation  of  the  art  of  his  masters. 
Abstract  conceptions  have  been  this  long  while  a 
constant  source  of  pollution  in  his  work.  Here,  even 
in  his  treatment  of  the  complexion,  he  seems  to  have 
been  impelled  by  some  abstract  conception  rather 
than  by  a pictorial  sense  of  harmony  and  contrast, 
and  partly  for  this  reason  his  synthesis  is  not 
beautiful,  like  the  conventional  silver-grey  which 
Velasquez  used  so  often,  or  the  gold-brown  skins 
of  Titian’s  women.  The  hand  tells  what  was  passing 
in  the  mind,  and  seeing  that  ugly  shadow  which 
marks  the  nose  I know  that  the  painter  was  not  then 
engaged  with  the  joy  of  purely  material  creation; 
had  he  been  he  could  not  have  rested  satisfied  with 
so  ugly  a statement  of  a beautiful  fact.  And  the 
forehead,  too,  where  it  comes  into  light,  where  it 
turns  into  shadow ; the  cheek,  too,  with  its  jaw- 
bone, and  the  evasive  modelling  under  and  below 
the  eyes,  are  summarily  rendered,  and  we  think 
perforce  of  the  supple,  flowing  modelling,  so  illusive, 
apparent  only  in  the  result,  with  which  Titian  would 
have  achieved  that  face.  Manet,  an  incomplete  Hals, 
might  have  failed  to  join  the  planes,  and  in  his 
frankness  left  out  what  he  had  not  sufficiently 
observed;  but  he  would  have  compensated  us  with 
a beautiful  tone. 

For  an  illustration  of  Mr.  Watts’  drawing  we  will 
take  the  picture  of  “ Love  and  Death,”  perhaps  the 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 


in 


most  pictorially  significant  of  all  Mr.  Watts’  designs. 
The  enormous  figure  of  Death  advances  impressively 
with  right  arm  raised  to  force  the  door  which  a 
terrified  Love  would  keep  closed  against  him.  The 
figure  of  Death  is  draped  in  grey,  the  colour  that 
Mr.  Watts  is  most  in  sympathy  with  and  manages 
best.  But  the  upper  portion  of  the  figure  is  vast, 
and  the  construction  beneath  the  robe  too  little 
understood  for  it  not  to  lack  interest ; and  in  the 
raised  arm  and  hand  laid  against  the  door,  where 
power  and  delicacy  of  line  were  indispensable  for 
the  pictorial  beauty  of  the  picture,  we  are  vouchsafed 
no  more  than  a rough  statement  of  rudimentary  fact. 
Love  is  thrown  back  against  the  door,  his  right  arm 
raised,  his  right  leg  advanced  in  action  of  resistance 
to  the  intruder.  The  movement  is  well  conceived, 
and  we  regret  that  so  summary  a line  should  have 
been  thought  sufficient  expression.  Any  one  who  has 
ever  held  a pencil  in  a school  of  art  knows  how  a 
young  body,  from  armpit  to  ankle-bone,  flows  with 
lovely  line.  Any  one  who  has  been  to  the  Louvre 
knows  the  passion  with  which  Ingres  would  follow 
this  line,  simplifying  it  and  drawing  it  closer  until  it 
surpassed  all  melody.  But  in  Mr.  Watts’  picture 
the  boy’s  natural  beauty  is  lost  in  a coarse  and  rough 
planing  out  that  tells  of  an  eye  that  saw  vaguely  and 
that  wearied,  and  in  an  execution  full  of  uncertain 
touch  and  painful  effort.  Unless  the  painter  is 
especially  endowed  with  the  instinct  of  anatomies, 
the  sentiment  of  proportion,  and  a passion  for  form, 
the  nude  is  a will-o’-the-wisp,  whose  way  leads  where 
he  may  not  follow  No  one  suspects  Mr.  Watts  of 


1 1 2 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 


one  of  these  qualifications ; he  appears  even  to  think 
them  of  but  slight  value,  and  his  quest  of  the  alle- 
gorical seems  to  be  merely  motived  by  an  unfortunate 
desire  to  philosophise. 

As  a colourist  Mr.  Watts  is  held  in  high  esteem, 
and  it  is  as  a colourist  that  his  admirers  consider 
his  claim  to  the  future  to  be  best  founded.  Beautiful 
passages  of  colour  are  frequently  to  be  met  with  in 
his  work,  and  yet  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  what 
colour  except  grey  he  has  shown  any  mastery  over. 
A painter  may  paint  with  an  exceedingly  reduced 
palette,  like  Chardin,  and  yet  be  an  exquisite 
colourist.  To  colour  well  does  not  consist  in  the 
employment  of  bright  colours,  but  in  the  power  of 
carrying  the  dominant  note  of  colour  through  the 
entire  picture,  through  the  shadows  as  well  as  the 
half-tints,  and  Chardin’s  grey  we  find  everywhere,  in 
the  bloom  of  a peach  as  well  as  in  a decanter  of 
rich  wine ; and  how  tender  and  persuasive  it  is ! 
Mr.  Watts’  grey  would  seem  coarse,  common,  unin- 
teresting beside  it.  Reds  and  blues  and  yellows  do 
not  disappear  from  Mr.  Watts’  palette  as  they  do 
from  Rembrandt’s ; they  are  there,  but  they  are 
usually  so  dirtied  that  they  appear  like  a mono- 
chrome. Can  we  point  to  any  such  fresh,  beautiful 
red  as  the  scarf  that  the  “ Princesse  des  Pays  de  la 
Porcelaine”  wears  about  that  grey  which  would  have 
broken  Chardin’s  heart  with  envy?  Can  we  point 
to  any  blue  in  Mr.  Watts’  as  fresh  and  as  beautiful 
as  the  blue  carpet  under  the  Princess’s  feet  ? 

With  what  Mr.  Watts  paints  it  is  impossible  to  say. 
On  one  side  an  unpleasant  reddish  brown,  scrubbed 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS.  113 

till  it  looks  like  a mud-washed  rock ; on  the  other 
a crumbling  grey,  like  the  rind  of  a Stilton  cheese. 
The  nude  figure  in  the  reeds — the  picture  pur- 
chased for  the  Chantrey  Fund  collection  — will 
serve  for  illustration.  It  is  clearly  the  work  of  a 
man  with  something  incontestably  great  in  his  soul, 
but  why  should  so  beautiful  a material  as  oil  paint 
be  transformed  into  a crumbly  substance  like — I can 
think  of  nothing  else  but  the  rind  of  a Stilton  cheese. 
Mr.  Watts  and  Mr.  Burne-Jones  seem  to  have  con- 
vinced themselves  that  imaginative  work  can  only  be 
expressed  in  wool-work  and  gum.  A strange  theory, 
for  which  I find  no  authority,  even  if  I extend  my 
inquiry  as  far  back  as  Mantegna  and  Botticelli.  True, 
that  the  method  of  these  painters  is  archaic,  the  lights 
are  narrowed,  and  the  shadows  broadened;  never- 
theless, their  handling  of  oil  colour  is  nearer  to  Titian's 
than  either  Mr.  Watts'  or  Mr.  Burne-Jones'. 

It  is  one  of  the  platitudes  of  art  criticism  to  call 
attention  to  the  length  of  the  necks  of  Rossetti's 
women,  and  thereby  to  infer  that  the  painter  could 
not  draw.  True,  Rossetti  was  not  a skilful  draughts- 
man, but  not  because  the  necks  of  his  women 
are  too  long.  The  relation  between  good  drawing 
and  measurement  is  slight.  The  first  quality  in 
drawing,  without  which  drawing  does  not  exist,  is 
an  individual  seeing  of  the  object.  This  Rossetti 
most  certainly  had;  there  his  draughtsmanship  began 
and  ended.  But  the  question  lies  rather  with  hand- 
ling than  with  drawing,  and  Rossetti  sometimes 
handled  paint  very  skilfully.  The  face  and  hair  of 
the  half-length  Venus  surrounded  with  roses  is  excel- 

8 


ii4 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 


lent  in  quality;  the  roses  and  the  honeysuckle  are 
quite  beautiful  in  quality;  they  are  fresh  and  bright, 
pure  in  colour,  as  if  they  had  just  come  from  the 
garden.  The  “Annunciation”  in  the  National  Gallery 
is  a little  sandy,  but  it  cannot  be  said  to  be  bad 
in  quality,  as  Mr.  Watts’  and  Mr.  Jones’  pictures 
are  bad.  Every  Rossetti  is  at  least  clearly  recog- 
nisable as  an  oil  painting. 

In  the  same  room  there  is  Mr.  Orchardson’s 
picture  of  “Napoleon  dictating  the  Account  of  his 
Campaigns.”  I gather  from  my  notes  the  trace  of 
the  disappointment  that  this  picture  caused  me. 
“Two  small  figures  in  a large  canvas.  The  secre- 
tary sits  on  the  right  at  a small  table.  He  looks 
up,  his  face  turned  towards  Napoleon,  who  stands 
on  the  left  in  the  middle  of  the  picture,  looking 
down,  studying  the  maps  with  which  the  floor  is 
strewn.  A great  simplicity  in  the  surroundings,  and 
all  the  points  of  character  insisted  on,  with  the  view 
of  awakening  the  spectator’s  curiosity.  From  first  to 
last  a vicious  desire  to  narrate  an  anecdote.  It  is 
strange  that  a man  of  Mr.  Orchardson’s  talent  should 
participate  so  fully  in  the  supreme  vice  of  modern  art 
which  believes  a picture  to  be  the  same  thing  as  a 
scene  in  a play.  The  whole  picture  conceived  and 
executed  in  that  pale  yellow  tint  which  seems  to  be 
the  habitual  colour  of  Mr.  Orchardson’s  mind.”  A 
pity  indeed  it  is  that  Mr.  Orchardson  should  waste 
very  real  talent  in  narratives,  for  he  is  a great  portrait 
painter.  I remember  very  well  that  beautiful  portrait 
of  his  wife  and  child,  and  will  take  this  opportunity 
to  recall  it.  It  is  the  finest  thing  he  has  done ; finer 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS, 


”5 


than  the  portrait  of  Mr.  Gilbey.  Here,  in  a few  words, 
is  the  subject  of  the  picture.  An  old-fashioned  cane 
sofa  stretches  right  across  the  canvas.  A lady  in 
black  is  seated  on  the  right;  she  bends  forward,  her 
left  arm  leaning  over  the  back  of  the  sofa ; she 
holds  in  her  hand  a Japanese  hand-screen.  The 
fine  and  graceful  English  profile  is  modelled  without 
vulgar  roundness,  un  beau  modele  a plat ; and  the 
black  hair  is  heavy  and  loose,  one  lock  slipping  over 
the  forehead.  The  painter  has  told  the  exact  character 
of  the  hair  as  he  has  told  the  character  of  the  hand, 
and  the  age  of  the  hand  and  hair  is  evident.  She  is 
a woman  of  five-and-thirty,  she  is  interested  in  her 
baby,  her  first  baby,  as  a woman  of  that  age  would  be. 
The  baby  lies  on  a woollen  rug  and  cushion,  just 
beneath  the  mother's  eyes ; the  colour  of  both  is  a 
reddish  yellow.  He  holds  up  his  hands  for  the  hand- 
screen  that  the  mother  waves  about  him.  The  strip  of 
background  about  the  yellow  cane-work  is  grey-green ; 
there  is  a vase  of  dried  ferns  and  grasses  on  the  left, 
and  the  whole  picture  is  filled  and  penetrated  with 
the  affection  and  charm  of  English  home-life,  and 
without  being  disfigured  with  any  touch  of  vulgar 
or  commonplace  sentimentality.  The  baby's  face  is 
somewhat  hard;  it  is,  perhaps,  the  least  satisfactory 
thing  in  the  picture.  The  picture  is  wanting  in 
that  totality  which  we  find  in  the  greatest  masters — 
for  instance,  in  that  exquisite  portrait  of  a mother 
and  child  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  exhibited  this  year 
in  the  Guildhall— that  beautiful  portrait  of  the  mother 
holding  out  her  babe  at  arms'-length  above  her  knee. 

Room  4 is  remarkable  for  Stanhope  Forbes'  picture 


n6 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 


of  “ Forging  the  Anchor.”  Mr.  Stanhope  Forbes  is 
the  last-elected  Academician,  and  the  most  promi- 
nent exponent  of  the  art  of  Bastien-Lepage.  Perhaps 
the  most  instructive  article  that  could  be  written 
on  the  Academy  would  be  one  in  which  the  writer 
would  confine  his  examination  to  this  and  Mr. 
Clausen’s  picture  of  “ Mowers,”  comparing  and  con- 
trasting the  two  pictures  at  every  point,  showing 
where  they  diverge,  and  tracing  their  artistic  history 
back  to  its  ultimate  source.  But  to  do  this  thoroughly 
would  be  to  write  the  history  of  the  artistic  move- 
ment in  France  and  England  for  the  last  thirty 
years;  and  I must  limit  myself  to  pointing  out  that 
Mr.  Clausen  has  gone  back  to  first  principles,  whereas 
Mr.  Stanhope  Forbes  still  continues  at  the  point 
where  Bastien-Lepage  began  to  curtail,  deform,  and 
degrade  the  original  inspiration.  Mr.  Clausen,  I said, 
overcame  the  difficulty  of  the  trousers  by  generalisa- 
tion. Mr.  Stanhope  Forbes  copied  the  trousers  seam 
by  seam,  patch  by  patch;  and  the  ugliness  of  the 
garment  bores  you  in  the  picture,  exactly  as  it  would 
in  nature.  And  the  same  criticism  applies  equally 
well  to  the  faces,  the  hands,  the  leather  aprons,  the 
loose  iron,  the  hammers,  the  pincers,  the  smoked 
walls.  I should  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that  Mr. 
Stanhope  Forbes  had  had  a forge  built  up  in  his 
studio,  and  had  copied  it  all  as  it  stood.  A 
handful  of  dry  facts  instead  of  a passionate 
impression  of  life  in  its  envelope  of  mystery  and 
suggestion. 

Realism,  that  is  to  say  the  desire  to  compete  with 
nature,  to  be  nature,  is  the  disease  from  which  art 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 


117 

has  suffered  most  in  the  last  twenty  years.  The 
disease  is  now  at  wane,  and  when  we  happen 
upon  a canvas  of  the  period  like  “Labourers  after 
Dinner,”  we  cry  out,  “ What  madness ! were  we 
ever  as  mad  as  that?”  The  impressionists  have 
been  often  accused  of  a desire  to  dispense  with  the 
element  of  beauty,  but  the  accusation  has  always 
seemed  to  me  to,  be  quite  groundless ; and  even 
memory  of  a certain  portrait  by  Mr.  Walter  Sickert 
does  not  cause  me  to  falter  in  this  opinion.  Until  I 
saw  Mr.  Clausen’s  “ Labourers  ” I did  not  fully  realise 
how  terrible  a thing  art  becomes  when  divorced  from 
beauty,  grace,  mystery,  and  suggestion.  It  would  be 
difficult  to  say  where  and  how  this  picture  differs  from 
a photograph ; it  seems  to  me  to  be  little  more  than 
the  vices  of  photography  magnified.  Having  spoken 
so  plainly,  it  is  necessary  that  I should  explain 
myself. 

The  subject  of  this  picture  is  a group  of  field 
labourers  finishing  their  mid-day  dinner  in  the  shade 
of  some  trees.  They  are  portrayed  in  a still  even 
light,  exactly  as  they  were;  the  picture  is  one  long 
explanation ; it  is  as  clear  as  a newspaper,  and  it  reads 
like  one.  We  can  tell  how  many  months  that  man  in 
the  foreground  has  worn  those  dreadful  hobnailed 
boots ; we  can  count  the  nails,  and  we  notice  that 
two  or  three  are  missing.  Those  disgusting  corduroy 
trousers  have  hung  about  his  legs  for  so  many 
months ; all  the  ugliness  of  these  labourers’  faces 
and  the  solid  earthiness  of  their  lives  are  there; 
nothing  has  been  omitted,  curtailed,  or  exaggerated. 
There  is  some  psychology.  We  see  that  the  years 


iiS 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 


have  brought  the  old  man  cunning  rather  than 
wisdom.  The  middle-aged  man  and  the  middle- 
aged  woman  live  in  mute  stupidity — they  have  known 
nothing  but  the  daily  hardship  of  living,  and  the 
vacuous  face  of  their  son  tells  how  completely  the  life 
of  his  forefathers  has  descended  upon  him.  Here 
there  is  neither  the  foolish  gaiety  of  Teniers’  peasants 
nor  the  vicious  animality  of  Brouwers’ ; and  it  is 
hardly  necessary  to  say  that  the  painter  has  seen 
nothing  of  the  legendary  patriarchal  beauty  and 
solemnity  which  lends  so  holy  a charm  to  Millet’s 
Breton  folk.  Mr.  Clausen  has  seen  nothing  but  the 
sordid  and  the  mean,  and  his  execution  in  this  picture 
is  as  sordid  and  as  mean  as  his  vision.  There  is  not 
a noble  gesture  expressive  of  weariness  nor  an 
attitude  expressive  of  resignation.  Mr.  Clausen 
seems  to  have  said,  “I  will  go  lower  than  the 
others ; I will  seek  my  art  in  the  mean  and  the 
meaningless.”  But  notwithstanding  his  very  real 
talent,  Mr.  Clausen  has  not  found  art  where  art  is 
not,  where  art  never  has  been  found,  where  art  never 
will  be  found. 

Looking  at  this  picture,  the  ordinary  man  will 
say,  “ If  such  ugliness  as  that  exists,  I don’t  want  to 
see  it.  Why  paint  such  subjects  ? ” And  at  least  the 
first  part  of  this  criticism  seems  to  me  to  be  quite 
incontrovertible.  I can  imagine  no  valid  reason  for 
the  portrayal  of  so  much  ugliness ; and,  what  is 
more  important,  I can  find  among  the  unquestioned 
masters  no  slightest  precedent  for  the  blank  realism 
of  this  picture.  The  ordinary  man’s  aversion  to  such 
ugliness  seems  to  me  to  be  entirely  right,  and  I only 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS.  ng 

join  issue  with  him  when  he  says,  “ Why  paint  such 
subjects?”  Why  not?  For  all  subjects  contain 
elements  of  beauty;  ugliness  does  not  exist  for 
the  eye  that  sees  beautifully,  and  meanness  vanishes 
if  the  sensation  is  a noble  one.  Have  not  the  very 
subjects  which  Mr.  Clausen  sees  so  meanly,  and 
which  he  degrades  below  the  level  even  of  the 
photograph,  been  seen  nobly,  and  have  they  not 
been  rendered  incomparably  touching,  even  august, 

by Well,  the  whole  world  knows  by  whom. 

But  it  will  be  said  that  Mr.  Clausen  painted  these 
people  as  he  saw  them.  I dare  say  he  did ; but  if 
he  could  not  see  these  field-folk  differently,  he  should 
have  abstained  from  painting  them. 

The  mission  of  art  is  not  truth,  but  beauty ; and 
I know  of  no  great  work — I will  go  even  further, 
I know  no  even  tolerable  work — in  literature  or  in 
painting  in  which  the  element  of  beauty  does  not 
inform  the  intention.  Art  is  surely  but  a series 
of  conventions  which  enable  us  to  express  our 
special  sense  of  beauty — for  beauty  is  everywhere, 
and  abounds  in  subtle  manifestations.  Things  ugly 
in  themselves  become  beautiful  by  association ; or 
perhaps  I should  say  that  they  become  picturesque. 
The  slightest  insistance  in  a line  will  redeem  and 
make  artistically  interesting  the  ugliest  face.  Look 
at  Degas’  ballet-girls,  and  say  if,  artistically,  they 
are  not  beautiful.  I defy  you  to  say  that  they 
are  mean.  Again,  an  alteration  in  the  light  and 
shade  will  create  beautiful  pictures  among  the 
meanest  brick  buildings  that  ever  were  run  up  by  the 
jerry-builder.  See  the  violet  suburb  stretching  into 


120 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 


the  golden  sunset.  How  exquisite  it  has  become ! 
how  full  of  suggestion  and  fairy  tale ! A picturesque 
shadow  will  redeem  the  squalor  of  the  meanest 
garret,  and  the  subdued  light  of  the  little  kitchen 
where  the  red-petticoated  housewife  is  sweeping 
must  contrast  so  delicately  with  the  white  glare  of 
the  brick  yard  where  the  neighbour  stands  in  parley, 
leaning  against  the  doorpost,  that  the  humble  life  of 
the  place  is  transformed  and  poetised.  This  was  the 
A B C of  Dutch  art ; it  was  the  Dutchmen  who  first 
found  out  that  with  the  poetising  aid  of  light  and 
shade  the  meanest  and  most  commonplace  incidents 
of  every-day  life  could  be  made  the  subjects  of 
pictures. 

There  are  no  merits  in  painting  except  technical 
merits ; and  though  my  criticism  of  Mr.  Clausen’s 
picture  may  at  first  sight  seem  to  be  a literary  criti- 
cism, it  is  in  truth  a strictly  technical  criticism.  For 
Mr.  Clausen  has  neglected  the  admirable  lessons 
which  our  Dutch  cousins  taught  us  two  hundred  years 
ago ; he  has  neglected  to  avail  himself  of  those  prin- 
ciples of  chiaroscuro  which  they  perfected,  and  which 
would  have  enabled  him  to  redeem  the  grossness,  the 
ugliness,  the  meanness  inherent  in  his  subject.  I 
said  that  he  had  gone  further,  in  abject  realism,  than 
a photograph.  I do  not  think  I have  exaggerated. 
It  is  not  probable  that  those  peasants  would  look  so 
ugly  in  a photograph  as  they  do  in  his  picture.  For 
had  they  been  photographed,  the  chances  are  that 
some  shadow  would  have  clothed,  would  have  hid, 
something,  and  a chance  gleam  might  have  concen- 
trated the  attention  on  some  particular  spot.  Nine 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 


I 2 1 


times  out  of  ten  the  exposure  of  the  plate  would  not 
have  taken  place  in  a moment  of  flat  grey  light. 

But  it  is  the  theory  of  Mr.  Clausen  and  his 
school  that  it  is  right  and  proper  to  take  a six-foot 
canvas  into  the  open,  and  paint  the  entire  picture 
from  Nature.  But  when  the  sun  is  shining,  it  is  not 
possible  to  paint  for  more  than  an  hour — an  hour  and 
a half  at  most.  At  the  end  of  that  time  the  shadows 
have  moved  so  much  that  the  effect  is  wholly 
different.  But  on  a grey  day  it  is  possible  to  paint 
on  the  same  picture  for  four  or  five  hours.  Hence  the 
preference  shown  by  this  school  for  grey  days.  Then 
the  whole  subject  is  seen  clearly,  like  a newspaper ; 
and  the  artist,  if  he  is  a realist,  copies  every  patch  on 
the  trousers,  and  does  not  omit  to  tell  us  how  many 
nails  have  fallen  from  the  great  clay-stained  boots. 
Pre-Raphaelitism  is  only  possible  among  august  and 
beautiful  things,  when  the  subjects  of  the  pictures  are 
Virgins  and  angels,  and  the  accessories  are  marbles, 
agate  columns,  Persian  carpets,  gold  enwoven  robes 
and  vestments,  ivories,  engraven  metals,  pearls,  velvets 
and  silks,  and  when  the  object  of  the  painter  is  to 
convey  a sensation  of  the  beauty  of  these  materials 
by  the  luxury  and  beauty  of  the  workmanship.  The 
common  workaday  world,  with  accessories  of  tin  pots 
and  pans,  corduroy  breeches  and  clay-pipes,  can  be 
only  depicted  by  a series  of  ellipses  through  a mystery 
of  light  and  shade. 

Beauty  of  some  sort  there  must  be  in  a work  of 
art,  and  the  very  conditions  under  which  Mr.  Clausen 
painted  precluded  any  beauty  from  entering  into  his 
picture.  But  this  year  Mr.  Clausen  seems  to  have 


I 22 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 


shaken  himself  free  from  his  early  education,  and  he 
exhibits  a picture,  conceived  in  an  entirely  different 
spirit,  in  this  Academy.  Turning  to  my  notes  I find 
it  thus  described : “ A small  canvas  containing  three 
mowers  in  a flowering  meadow.  Two  are  mowing ; 
the  third,  a little  to  the  left,  sharpens  his  scythe. 
The  sky  is  deep  and  lowering— a sultry  summer 
day,  a little  unpleasant  in  colour,  but  true.  At 
the  end  of  the  meadow  the  trees  gleam.  The  earth 
is  wrapped  in  a hot  mist,  the  result  of  the  heat, 
and  through  it  the  sun  sheds  a somewhat  diffused  and 
oven-like  heat.  There  are  heavy  clouds  overhead, 
for  the  gleam  that  passes  over  the  three  white  shirts 
is  transitory  and  uncertain.  The  handling  is  woolly 
and  unpleasant,  but  handling  can  be  overlooked  when 
a canvas  exhales  a deep  sensation  of  life.  The  move- 
ment of  mowing — I should  have  said  movements,  for 
the  men  mow  differently ; one  is  older  than  the  other 
— is  admirably  expressed.  And  the  principal  figure, 
though  placed  in  the  immediate  foreground,  is  in  and 
not  out  of  the  atmosphere.  The  difficulty  of  the 
trousers  has  been  overcome  by  generalisation;  the 
garment  has  not  been  copied  patch  by  patch.  The 
distribution  of  light  is  admirable ; nowhere  does  it 
escape  from  the  frame.  J.  F.  Millet  has  painted 
many  a worse  picture.” 

Mr.  Solomon  and  Mr.  Hacker  have  both  turned 
to  mythology  for  the  subjects  of  their  pictures.  And 
the  beautiful  and  touching  legends  of  Orpheus,  and 
the  Annunciation,  have  been  treated  by  them  with 
the  indifference  of  “our  special  artist,”  who  places 
the  firemen  on  the  right,  the  pump  on  the  left,  and 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS, 


123 

the  blazing  house  in  the  middle  of  the  picture.  These 
pictures  are  therefore  typical  of  a great  deal  of 
historical  painting  of  our  time ; and  I speak  of  them 
because  they  give  me  an  opportunity  of  pointing  out 
that  before  deciding  to  treat  a page  of  history  or 
legend,  the  painter  should  come  to  conclusions  with 
himself  regarding  the  goal  which  he  desires  to  obtain. 
There  are  but  two. 

Either  the  legend  passes  unperceived  in  pomp  of 
colour  and  wealth  of  design,  or  the  picture  is  a visible 
interpretation  of  the  legend.  The  Venetians  were 
able  to  disregard  the  legend,  but  in  centuries  less 
richly  endowed  with  pictorial  genius  painters  are 
inclined  to  support  their  failing  art  with  the  psycho- 
logical interest  their  imaginations  draw  from  it.  But 
imaginative  interpretation  should  not  be  confused  with 
bald  illustration.  The  Academicians  cannot  under- 
stand why,  if  we  praise  “ Dante  seeing  Beatrice  in  a 
Dream,”  we  should  vilify  Mr.  Fildes’  “ Doctor.”  In 
both  cases  a story  is  told,  in  neither  case  is  the 
execution  excellent.  Why  then  should  one  be  a 
picture  and  the  other  no  more  than  a bald  illus- 
tration ? The  question  is  a vexed  one,  and  the  only 
conclusion  that  we  can  draw  seems  to  be  that  senti- 
mentality pollutes,  the  anecdote  degrades,  wit  alto- 
gether ruins ; only  great  thought  may  enter  into  art. 
Rossetti  is  a painter  we  admire,  and  we  place  him 
above  Mr.  Fildes,  because  his  interpretations  are  more 
imaginative.  We  condone  his  lack  of  pictorial  power, 
because  he  could  think,  and  we  appreciate  his  Annun- 
ciation— the  “Ecce  Ancilla  Domini ! ” in  the  National 
Gallery,  principally  because  he  has  looked  deep  into  the 
legend,  and  revealed  its  true  and  human  significance. 


124 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS, 


It  is  a small  picture,  about  three  feet  by  two,  and 
is  destitute  of  all  technical  accomplishment,  or  even 
habit.  It  is  painted  in  white  and  blue,  and  the  streak 
of  red  in  the  foreground,  the  red  of  a screen  on  which 
is  embroidered  the  lily — emblem  of  purity — adds  to 
the  chill  and  coldness.  Drawn  up  upon  her  white 
bed  the  Virgin  crouches,  silent  with  expectation, 
listening  to  the  mystic  dream  that  has  come  upon  her 
in  the  dim  hush  of  dawn.  The  large  blue  eyes  gleam 
with  some  strange  joy  that  is  quickening  in  her.  The 
mouth  and  chin  tell  no  tale,  but  the  eyes  are  deep 
pools  of  light,  and  mirror  the  soul  that  is  on  fire 
within.  The  red  hair  falls  about  her,  a symbol  of  the 
soul.  In  the  drawn-up  knees,  faintly  outlined  beneath 
the  white  sheet,  the  painter  hints  at  her  body’s  beauty. 
One  arm  is  cast  forward,  the  hand  not  clenched  but 
stricken.  Behind  her  a blue  curtain  hangs  straight 
from  iron  rods  set  on  either  side  of  the  bed.  Above 
the  curtain  a lamp  is  burning  dimly,  blighted  by  the 
pallor  of  the  dawn.  A dead,  faint  sky — the  faint  ashen 
sky  which  precedes  the  first  rose  tint ; the  circular 
window  is  filled  with  it,  and  the  paling  blue  of  the 
sky’s  colour  contrasts  with  the  deep  blue  of  the  bed’s 
curtain,  on  which  the  Virgin’s  red  hair  is  painted. 

The  angel  stands  by  the  side  of  the  white  bed — 
I should  say  floats,  his  fair  feet  hanging  out  of  a 
few  pale  flames.  White  raiment  clothes  him,  falling 
in  long  folds,  leaving  the  arms  and  feet  bare ; in  the 
right  hand  he  holds  a lily  all  in  blossom;  the  left 
hand  is  extended  in  rigid  gesture  of  warning.  Brown- 
gold  hair  grows  thick  about  the  angel’s  neck ; the 
shadowed  profile  is  outlined  against  the  hard,  sad 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 


125 


sky ; the  expression  of  the  face  is  deep  and  sphinx- 
like  ; he  has  come,  it  is  clear,  from  vast  realms  of 
light,  where  uncertainty  and  doubt  are  unknown. 
The  Dove  passes  by  him  towards  the  Virgin.  Look 
upon  her  again,  crouching  in  her  white  bed,  her 
knees  drawn  to  her  bosom,  her  deep  blue  eyes — her 
dawn-tinted  eyes — filled  with  ache,  dream,  and  expec- 
tation. The  shadows  of  dawn  are  on  wall  and  floor — 
strange,  blue  shadows ! — the  Virgin’s  shadow  lies  on 
the  wall,  the  angel’s  shadow  falls  across  the  coverlet. 

Here,  at  least,  there  is  drama,  and  the  highest  form 
of  drama — spiritual  drama ; here,  at  least,  there  is 
story,  and  the  highest  form  of  story — symbol  and 
suggestion.  Rossetti  has  revealed  the  essence  of  this 
intensely  human  story — a story  that,  whenever  we  look 
below  the  surface,  which  is  mediaeval  and  religious, 
we  recognise  as  a story  of  to-day,  of  yesterday,  of  all 
time.  A girl  thralled  by  the  mystery  of  conception 
awakes  at  morn  in  palpitations,  seeing  visions. 

Mr.  Hacker’s  telling  of  the  legend  is  to  Rossetti’s 
what  a story  in  the  London  Journal  is  to  a story 
by  Balzac.  The  Virgin  has  apparently  wandered 
outside  the  town.  She  is  dressed  in  a long  white 
garment  neither  beautiful  nor  explicit : is  it  a night- 
dress, or  a piece  of  conventional  drapery?  On  the 
right  there  is  a long,  silly  tree,  which  looks  as  if  it 
had  been  evolved  out  of  a ball  of  green  wool  with 
knitting-needles,  and  above  her  floats  an  angel  attired 
in  a wisp  of  blue  gauze.  Rossetti,  we  know,  was,  in 
the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  hardly  a painter  at  all, 
but  he  had  something  to  say;  and  we  can  bear  in 
painting,  as  we  can  in  literature,  with  faulty  expres- 


126 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 


sion,  if  there  is  something  behind  it.  What  is  most 
intolerable  in  art  is  scholastic  rodomontade.  And 
what  else  is  Mr.  Hacker’s  execution  ? In  every  trans- 
mission the  method  seems  to  degenerate,  and  in  this 
picture  it  seems  to  have  touched  bottom.  It  has 
become  loose,  all  its  original  crispness  is  lost,  and, 
complicated  with  la  peinture  claire>  it  seems  incapable 
of  expressing  anything  whatsoever.  There  is  no 
variety  of  tone  in  that  white  sheet,  there  is  nobody 
inside  it,  and  the  angel  is  as  insincere  and  frivolous 
as  any  sketch  in  a young  lady’s  album.  The  building 
at  the  back  seems  to  have  been  painted  with  the 
scrapings  of  a dirty  palette,  and  the  sky  in  the  left- 
hand  corner  comes  out  of  the  picture.  I have  only 
to  add  that  the  picture  has  been  purchased  out  of 
the  Chantry  Bequest  Fund,  and  the  purchase  is 
considered  to  be  equivalent  to  a formal  declaration 
that  Mr.  Hacker  will  be  elected  an  Associate  of  the 
Royal  Academy  at  the  next  election. 

Mr.  Hacker’s  election  to  the  Academy — I speak  of 
this  election  as  a foregone  conclusion — following  as 
it  does  the  election  of  Mr.  Stanhope  Forbes,  makes  it 
plain  that  the  intention  of  the  Academy  is  to  support 
to  the  full  extent  of  its  great  power  a method  of 
painting  which  is  foreign  and  unnatural  to  English 
art,  which,  in  the  opinion  of  a large  body  of  artists — 
and  it  is  valuable  to  know  that  their  opinion  is  shared 
by  the  best  and  most  original  of  the  French  artists — 
is  disintegrating  and  destroying  our  English  artistic 
tradition.  Mr.  Hacker’s  election,  and  the  three 
elections  that  will  follow  it,  those  of  Mr.  Shannon, 
Mr.  Alfred  East,  and  Mr.  Bromley,  will  be  equivalent 


OUR  ACADEMICIANS. 


127 


to  an  official  declaration  that  those  who  desire  to 
be  English  Academicians  must  adopt  the  French 
methods.  Independent  of  the  national  disaster  that 
these  elections  will  inflict  on  art,  they  will  be  more- 
over flagrant  acts  of  injustice.  For  I repeat,  among 
the  forty  Academicians  there  is  not  one  who  considers 
these  future  Academicians  to  be  comparable  to  Mr. 
Whistler,  Mr.  Albert  Moore,  Mr.  Swan,  or  Mr. 
Sargent.  No  one  holds  such  an  opinion,  and  yet 
there  is  no  doubt  which  way  the  elections  in  the 
Academy  will  go. 

The  explanation  of  this  incredible  anomaly  I 
have  given,  the  explanation  is  not  a noble  one, 
but  that  is  not  a matter  for  which  I can  be  held 
responsible;  suffice  it  to  say,  that  my  explanation  is 
the  only  possible  explanation.  The  Academy  is  a 
private  commercial  enterprise,  and  conducts  its 
business  on  the  lines  which  it  considers  the  most 
advantageous ; its  commercialism  has  become  flagrant 
and  undeniable.  If  this  is  so — how  the  facts  can 
otherwise  be  explained  I cannot  see — it  is  to  be 
regretted  that  the  Academy  got  its  beautiful  site  for 
nothing.  But  regrets  are  vain.  The  only  thing  to 
do  now  is  to  see  that  the  Academy  is  no  longer 
allowed  to  sail  under  false  colours.  This  article 
may  awaken  in  the  Academy  a sense  that  it  is  not 
well  to  persist  in  open  and  flagrant  defiance  of  public 
opinion,  or  it  may  serve  to  render  the  Academicians 
even  more  stiff-necked  than  before.  In  either  case  it 
will  have  accomplished  its  purpose. 


THE  ORGANISATION  OF  ART. 


No  fact  is  more  painful  to  the  modern  mind  than  that 
men  are  not  born  with  equal  brains ; and  every  day 
we  grow  more  and  more  determined  to  thwart  Nature’s 
desire  of  inequality  by  public  education.  Whether 
everybody  should  be  taught  to  read  and  write  I 
leave  to  politicians — the  matter  is  not  important;  but 
that  the  nation  should  not  be  instructed  in  drawing, 
music,  painting,  and  English  literature  I will  never 
cease  to  maintain.  Everything  that  has  happened  in 
England  for  the  last  thirty  years  goes  to  prove  that 
systematised  education  in  art  means  artistic  decadence. 

To  the  ordinary  mind  there  is  something  very 
reassuring  in  the  words  institutions,  professors, 
examinations,  medals,  and  titles  of  all  kinds.  All 
these  things  have  been  given  of  late  years  to  art, 
and  parents  and  guardians  need  no  longer  have  any 
fear  for  those  confided  to  their  charge  : the  art  of 
painting  has  been  recognised  as  a profession ! The 
principal  institution  where  this  profession  is  practised 
is  called  the  Royal  Academy.  It  owes  its  existence 
to  the  taste  of  a gentleman  known  as  George  the 
Third,  and  it  has  been  dowered  by  the  State  to  the 
extent  of  at  least  three  hundred  thousand  pounds. 
Professors  from  Oxford,  even  bishops,  dine  there. 
The  members  of  this  institution  put  R.A.  after  their 
names ; the  president  has  been  made  a baronet ; 


THE  ORGANISATION  OF  ART  129 


there  was  even  a rumour  that  he  was  going  to  be 
made  a lord,  and  that  he  was  not  we  must  consider  as 
another  blow  dealt  against  the  dignity  of  art. 

Literature  does  not  offer  so  much  scope  for  organi- 
sation as  painting;  but  strenuous  efforts  are  being 
made  to  organise  it,  and,  by  the  aid  of  academies, 
examinations,  and  crowns,  hopes  are  entertained 
that,  before  long,  it  will  be  brought  into  line  with 
the  other  professions.  And  the  journalists  too  are 
anxious  to  “ erect  their  craft  to  the  dignity  of  a profes- 
sion which  shall  confer  upon  its  members  certain 
social  status  like  that  of  the  barrister  and  lawyer.” 
Entrance  is  to  be  strictly  conditional;  no  one  is  to  have 
a right  to  practice  without  a diploma,  and  members  are 
to  be  entitled  to  certain  letters  after  their  names.  A 
movement  is  on  foot  to  Churton-Collinise  English 
literature  at  the  universities,  and  every  month  Mr. 
Walter  Besant  raises  a wail  in  the  Author  that  the 
peerage  is  not  as  open  to  three-volume  novelists  as 
it  is  to  brewers.  He  bewails  the  fact  that  no  eminent 
man  of  letters,  with  the  exception  of  Lord  Tennyson, 
has  been  made  the  enforced  associate  of  brewers  and 
politicians.  Mr.  Besant  does  not  think  that  titles 
in  these  democratic  days  are  foolish  and  absurd, 
pitiful  in  the  personality  of  those  who  own  them  by 
inheritance,  grotesque  in  the  personality  of  those  on 
whom  they  have  been  conferred.  Mr.  Besant  does 
not  see  that  the  desire  of  the  baker,  the  brewer,  the 
butcher,  and  I may  add  the  three-volume  novelist, 
to  be  addressed  by  small  tradesmen  and  lackeys  as 
“yer  lordship,”  raises  a smile  on  the  lips  even  of  the 
most  blase 


9 


130  THE  ORGANISATION  OF  ART 


I am  advocating  an  unpopular  regime  I know,  for 
the  majority  believe  that  art  is  in  Queer  Street  if  new 
buildings  are  not  being  raised,  if  official  recognition 
of  merits  is  not  proclaimed,  and  if  the  newspapers  do 
not  teem  with  paragraphs  concerning  the  homes  of 
the  Academicians.  The  wailing  and  gnashing  of  teeth 
that  were  heard  when  an  intelligent  portion  of  the 
Press  induced  Mr.  Tate  to  withdraw  his  offer  to  build 
a gallery  and  furnish  it  with  pictures  by  Messrs.  Her- 
komer,  Fildes,  Leader,  Long,  are  not  forgotten.  It 
was  not  urged  that  the  pictures  were  valuable  pictures ; 
the  merit  or  demerit  of  the  pictures  was  not  what 
interested,  but  the  fact  that  a great  deal  of  money  was 
going  to  be  spent,  and  that  titles,  badges,  medals, 
crowns,  would  be  given  to  those  whose  pictures  were 
enshrined  in  the  new  temple  of  art.  The  Tate  Gallery 
touched  these  folk  as  would  an  imposing  review  of 
troops,  a procession  of  judges,  or  a coronation  in  West- 
minster Abbey.  Their  senses  were  tickled  by  the 
prospect  of  a show,  their  minds  were  stirred  by 
some  idea  of  organisation— something  was  about  to 
be  organised,  and  nothing  appeals  so  much  to  the 
vulgar  mind  as  organisation. 

An  epoch  is  represented  by  a word,  and  to  organise 
represents  the  dominant  idea  of  our  civilisation.  To 
organise  is  to  be  respectable,  and  as  every  one  wants 
to  be  respectable,  every  one  dreams  of  new  schemes  of 
organisation.  Soldiers,  sailors,  policemen,  members 
of  parliament,  independent  voters,  clerks  in  the  post 
office,  bus  drivers,  dockers,  every  imaginable  variety 
of  worker,  domestic  servants — it  is  difficult  to  think  of 
any  class  that  has  not  been  organised  of  late  years. 


THE  ORGANISATION  OF  ART  131 


There  is  a gentleman  in  parliament  who  is  anxious  to 
do  something  in  the  way  of  social  organisation  for  the 
gipsies.  The  gipsies  have  not  appealed  to  him; 
they  have  professed  no  desire  to  have  their  social 
status  raised ; they  have,  I believe,  disclaimed  through 
their  king,  whoever  he  may  be,  all  participation  in  the 
scheme  of  this  benevolent  gentleman.  Nor  does  any 
sense  of  the  absurdity  of  his  endeavour  blight  the 
worthy  gentleman’s  ardour.  How  should  it  ? He,  like 
the  other  organisers,  is  an  unreasoning  instrument  in 
a great  tendency  of  things.  To  organise  something — 
or,  put  it  differently,  to  educate  some  one — is  to-day 
every  man’s  ambition.  So  long  as  it  is  not  himself,  it 
matters  no  jot  to  him  whom  he  educates.  The  gipsy 
under  the  hedge,  the  artist  painting  under  a hill,  it 
matters  not.  A technical  school  of  instruction  would 
enable  the  gipsy  to  harness  his  horse  better  than  he 
does  at  present;  and  the  artist  would  paint  much 
better  if  he  were  taught  to  stipple,  and  examined  by 
salaried  professors  in  stipple,  and  given  prizes  for 
stippling.  The  general  mind  of  our  century  is  with 
education  and  organisation  of  every  kind,  and  from 
this  terrible  general  mind  art  seems  unable  to  escape. 
Art,  that  poor  little  gipsy  whose  very  condition  of 
existence  is  freedom,  who  owns  no  code  of  laws,  who 
evades  all  regulations,  who  groups  himself  under  no 
standard,  who  can  live  only  in  disastrous  times,  when 
the  world’s  attention  is  drawn  to  other  things,  and 
allows  him  life  in  shelter  of  the  hedges,  and  dreams 
in  sight  of  the  stars,  finds  himself  forced  into  a 
uniform — poor  little  fellow,  how  melancholy  he  looks 
on  his  high  stool  in  the  South  Kensington  Museum, 


132  THE  ORGANISATION  OF  ART 


and  notwithstanding  the  professors  his  hand  drops  from 
the  drawing-board,  unable  to  accomplish  the  admired 
stipple. 

But  solemn  members  of  parliament  are  certain  that 
official  recognition  must  be  extended  to  art.  Art  is 
an  educational  influence,  and  the  Kensington  galleries 
are  something  more  than  agreeable  places,  where 
sweethearts  can  murmur  soft  nothings  under  divine 
masterpieces.  The  utilitarian  M.P.  must  find  some 
justification  for  art;  he  is  not  sensible  enough  to 
understand  that  art  justifies  its  own  existence,  that  it 
is  its  own  honour  and  glory;  and  he  nourishes  a 
flimsy  lie,  and  votes  that  large  sums  of  money  shall 
be  spent  in  endowing  schools  of  art  and  founding 
picture  galleries.  Then  there  is  another  class — those 
who  have  fish  to  fry,  and  to  whom  art  seems  a con- 
venient frying-pan.  Mr.  Tate  craves  for  a museum  to 
be  called  Tate's ; or,  if  his  princely  gift  gained  him  a 

title,  which  it  may,  the  museum  would  be  called 

What  would  be  an  appropriate  name?  There  are 
men  too  who  have  trifles  to  sell,  and  they  talk  loudly 
of  the  glories  of  modern  art,  and  the  necessity  of  a 
British  Luxembourg. 

That  France  should  have  a Luxembourg  is  natural 
enough ; that  we  should  have  one  would  be  anoma- 
lous. We  are  a free-trading  country.  I pass  over 
the  failure  of  the  Luxembourg  to  recognise  genius,  to 
save  the  artist  of  genius  a struggle  with  insolent 
ignorance.  What  did  the  Luxembourg  do  for  Corot, 
Millet,  Manet,  Degas,  Monet,  Renoir,  Sisley,  Pissaro? 
The  Luxembourg  chose  rather  to  honour  such  pre- 
tentious mediocrities  as  Bouguereau,  Jules  Lefebvre, 


THE  ORGANISATION  OF  ART.  133 

Jules  Breton,  and  their  like.  What  has  our  Academy 
done  to  rescue  struggling  genius  from  poverty  and 
obscurity?  Did  it  save  Alfred  Stevens,  the  great 
sculptor  of  his  generation,  from  the  task  of  designing 
fire-irons  ? How  often  did  the  Academy  refuse  Cecil 
Lawson’s  pictures  ? When  they  did  accept  him,  was 
it  not  because  he  had  become  popular  in  spite  of 
the  Academy?  Did  not  the  Academy  refuse  Mr. 
Whistler’s  portrait  of  his  mother,  and  was  it  not  hung 
at  the  last  moment  owing  to  a threat  of  one  of  the 
Academicians  to  resign  if  a place  was  not  found  for  it? 
Place  was  found  for  it  seven  feet  above  the  line.  Has 
not  the  Academy  for  the  last  five-and-twenty  years 
lent  the  whole  stress  and  authority  of  its  name  to 
crush  Mr.  Whistler  ? Happily  his  genius  was  sufficient 
for  the  fight,  and  it  was  not  until  he  had  conquered 
past  all  question  that  he  left  this  country.  The  record 
of  the  Academy  is  a significant  one.  But  if  it  has 
exercised  a vicious  influence  in  art,  its  history  is  no 
worse  than  that  of  other  academies.  Here,  as  else- 
where, the  Academy  has  tolerated  genius  when  it  was 
popular,  and  when  it  was  not  popular  it  has  trampled 
upon  it. 

We  have  Free  Trade  in  literature,  why  should  we 
not  have  Free  Trade  in  art  ? Why  should  not  every 
artist  go  into  the  market  without  title  or  masquerade 
that  blinds  the  public  to  the  value  of  what  he  has  to 
sell?  I would  turn  art  adrift,  titleless,  R. A. -less,  out 
into  the  street  and  field,  where,  under  the  light  of  his 
original  stars,  the  impassioned  vagrant  might  dream 
once  more,  and  for  the  mere  sake  of  his  dreams. 


ART  AND  SCIENCE. 


“Mr.  Goschen,”  said  a writer  in  a number  of  the 
Speaker , “ deserves  credit  for  having  successfully  re- 
sisted the  attempt  to  induce  him  to  sacrifice  the  in- 
terests of  science  at  South  Kensington  to  those  of  art.” 
An  excellent  theme  it  seemed  to  me  for  an  article ; but 
the  object  of  the  writer  being  praise  of  Mr.  Tate  for 
his  good  intention,  the  opportunity  was  missed  of 
distinguishing  between  the  false  claims  of  art  and  the 
real  claims  of  science  to  public  patronage  and  pro- 
tection. True  it  is  that  to  differentiate  between  art 
and  science  is  like  drawing  distinctions  between  black 
and  white ; and  in  excuse  I must  plead  the  ordinary 
vagueness  and  weakness  of  the  public  mind,  its 
inability  very  often  to  differentiate  between  things  the 
most  opposed,  and  a very  general  tendency  to  attempt 
to  justify  the  existence  of  art  on  the  grounds  of  utility 
— that  is  to  say,  educational  influences  and  the 
counter  attraction  that  a picture  gallery  offers  to  the 
public-house  on  Bank  Holidays.  Such  reasoning  is 
well  enough  at  political  meetings,  but  it  does  not  find 
acceptance  among  thinkers.  It  is  merely  the  flower 
of  foolish  belief  that  nineteenth  century  wisdom  is 
greater  than  the  collective  instinct  of  the  ages ; that 
we  are  far  in  advance  of  our  forefathers  in  religion,  in 
morals,  and  in  art.  We  are  only  in  advance  of  our 


ART  AND  SCIENCE . 


i3S 


forefathers  in  science.  In  art  we  have  done  little 
more  than  to  spoil  good  canvas  and  marble,  and  not 
content  with  such  misdeeds,  we  must  needs  insult  art 
by  attributing  to  her  utilitarian  ends  and  moral  pur- 
poses. 

Modern  puritanism  dares  not  say  abolish  art;  so 
in  thinly  disguised  speech  it  is  pleaded  that  art  is 
not  nearly  so  useless  as  might  easily  be  supposed ; 
and  it  is  often  seriously  urged  that  art  may  be 
reconciled  after  all  with  the  most  approved  principles 
of  humanitarianism,  progress,  and  religious  belief. 
Such  is  still  the  attitude  of  many  Englishmen  towards 
art.  But  art  needs  none  of  these  apologists,  even  if 
we  have  to  admit  that  the  domestic  utility  of  a 
Terburg  is  not  so  easily  defined  as  that  of  mixed 
pickles  or  umbrellas.  Another  serious  indictment  is 
that  art  appeals  rather  to  the  few  than  to  the  many. 
True,  indeed;  and  yet  art  is  the  very  spirit  and  sense 
of  the  many.  Yes ; and  all  that  is  most  national  in 
us,  all  that  is  most  sublime,  and  all  that  is  most  im- 
perishable. The  art  of  a nation  is  an  epitome  of  the 
nation’s  intelligence  and  prosperity.  There  is  no 
such  thing  as  cosmopolitanism  in  art  ? alas  ! there  is, 
and  what  a pitiful  thing  that  thing  is. 

Unhappy  is  he  who  forgets  the  morals,  the  man- 
ners, the  customs,  the  material  and  spiritual  life  of 
his  country!  England  can  do  without  any  one  of 
us,  but  not  one  of  us  can  do  without  England. 
Study  the  question  in  the  present,  study  it  in 
the  past,  and  you  will  find  but  one  answer  to  your 
question — art  is  nationhood.  All  the  great  artistic 
epochs  have  followed  on  times  of  national  enthu- 


136 


ART  AND  SCIENCE. 


siasm,  power,  energy,  spiritual  and  corporal  ad- 
venture. When  Greece  was  divided  into  half-a- 
dozen  States  she  produced  her  greatest  art.  The 
same  with  Italy;  and  Holland,  after  having  rivalled 
Greece  in  heroic  effort,  gave  birth  in  the  space  of  a 
single  generation  to  between  twenty  and  thirty  great 
painters.  And  did  not  our  Elizabethan  drama  follow 
close  upon  the  defeat  of  the  Armada,  the  discovery 
of  America,  and  the  Reformation?  And  did  not 
Reynolds,  Gainsborough,  and  Romney  begin  to  paint 
almost  immediately  after  the  victories  of  Marlborough  ? 
To-day  our  empire  is  vast,  and  as  our  empire  grows 
so  does  our  art  lessen.  Literature  still  survives, 
though  even  there  symptoms  of  decadence  are  visible. 
The  Roman,  the  Chinese,  and  the  Mahometan 
Empires  are  not  distinguished  for  their  art.  But 
outside  of  the  great  Chinese  Empire  there  lies  a little 
State  called  Japan,  which,  without  knowledge  of 
Egypt  or  Greece,  purely  out  of  its  own  conscious- 
ness, evolved  an  art  strangely  beautiful  and  wholly 
original. 

And  as  we  continue  to  examine  the  question  we 
become  aware  that  no  further  progress  in  art  is 
possible;  that  art  reached  its  apogee  two  thousand 
five  hundred  years  ago.  True  that  Michael  Angelo 
in  the  figures  of  “Day”  and  “Night,”  in  the  “Slave,” 
in  the  “Moses,”  and  in  the  “Last  Judgment” — 
which  last  should  be  classed  as  sculpture— stands 
very,  very  close  indeed  to  Phidias;  his  art  is  more 
complete  and  less  perfect.  But  three  hundred  years 
have  gone  since  the  death  of  Michael  Angelo,  and  to 
get  another  like  him  the  world  would  have  to  be 


ART  AND  SCIENCE, 


i37 


steeped  in  the  darkness  of  another  Middle  Age. 
And,  passing  on  in  our  inquiry,  we  notice  that 
painting  reached  its  height  immediately  after  Michael 
Angelo’s  death.  Who  shall  rival  the  splendours,  the 
profusion  of  Veronese,  the  opulence  of  Tintoretto,  the 
richness  of  Titian,  the  pomp  of  Rubens?  Or  who 
shall  challenge  the  technical  beauty  of  Velasquez  or 
of  Hals,  or  the  technical  dexterity  of  Terburg,  or 
Metzu,  or  Dow,  or  Adrian  van  Ostade  ? Passing  on 
once  again,  we  notice  that  art  appears  and  disappears 
mysteriously  like  a ghost.  It  comes  unexpectedly  upon 
a people,  and  it  goes  in  spite  of  artistic  education, 
State  help,  picture-dealers,  and  annual  exhibitions. 
We  notice,  too,  that  art  is  wholly  untransmissible ; 
nay,  more,  the  fact  that  art  is  with  us  to-day  is  proof 
that  art  will  not  be  with  us  to-morrow.  Art  cannot 
be  acquired,  nor  can  those  who  have  art  in  their  souls 
tell  how  it  came  there,  or  how  they  practise  it.  Art 
cannot  be  repressed,  encouraged,  or  explained ; it  is 
something  that  transcends  our  knowledge,  even  as  the 
principle  of  life. 

Now  I take  it  that  science  differs  from  art  on  all 
these  points.  Science  is  not  national,  it  is  essentially 
cosmopolitan.  The  science  of  one  country  is  the 
same  as  that  of  another  country.  It  is  impossible  to 
tell  by  looking  at  it  whether  the  phonograph  was 
invented  in  England  or  America.  Unlike  art,  again, 
science  is  essentially  transmissible;  every  discovery 
leads  of  necessity  to  another  discovery,  and  the  fact 
that  science  is  with  us  to-day  proves  that  science  will 
be  still  more  with  us  to-morrow.  Nothing  can  extin- 
guish science  except  an  invasion  of  barbarians,  and 


i3» 


ART  AND  SCIENCE. 


the  barbarians  that  science  has  left  alive  would  hardly 
suffice.  Art  has  its  limitations,  science  has  none. 
It  would,  however,  be  vain  to  pursue  our  differentia- 
tion any  further.  It  must  be  clear  that  what  are 
most  opposed  in  this  world  are  art  and  science; 
therefore — I think  I can  say  therefore— all  the 
arguments  I used  to  show  that  a British  Luxembourg 
would  be  prejudicial  to  the  true  interests  of  art  may 
be  used  in  favour  of  the  endowment  of  a college  of 
science  at  South  Kensington.  Why  should  not  the 
humanitarianism  of  Mr.  Tate  induce  him  to  give  his 
money  to  science  instead  of  to  art?  As  well  build 
a hothouse  for  swallows  to  winter  in  as  a British 
Luxembourg;  but  science  is  a good  old  barn-door 
fowl;  build  her  a hen-roost,  and  she  will  lay  you  eggs, 
and  golden  eggs.  Give  your  money  to  science,  for 
there  is  an  evil  side  to  every  other  kind  of  almsgiving. 
It  is  well  to  save  life,  but  the  world  is  already  over- 
stocked with  life;  and  in  saving  life  one  may  be 
making  the  struggle  for  existence  still  more  unen- 
durable for  those  who  come  after.  But  in  giving 
your  money  to  science  you  are  accomplishing  a 
definite  good ; the  results  of  science  have  always  been 
beneficent.  Science  will  alleviate  the  wants  of  the 
world  more  wisely  than  the  kindest  heart  that  ever 
beat  under  the  robe  of  a Sister  of  Mercy;  the  hands 
of  science  are  the  mercifulest  in  the  end,  and  it  is 
science  that  will  redeem  man’s  hope  of  Paradise. 


ROYALTY  IN  ART. 


The  subject  is  full  of  suggestion,  and  though  any 
adequate  examination  of  it  would  lead  me  beyond  the 
limits  of  this  paper,  I think  I may  venture  to  lift  its 
fringe.  To  do  so,  we  must  glance  at  its  historic  side. 
We  know  the  interest  that  Julius  the  Second  took  in 
the  art  of  Michael  Angelo  and  Raphael : had  it  not 
been  for  the  Popes,  St.  Peter’s  would  not  have  been 
built,  nor  would  “The  Last  Judgment”  have  been 
painted.  We  know,  too,  of  Philip  the  Fourth’s  great 
love  of  the  art  of  Velasquez.  The  Court  of  Frederick 
the  Great  was  a republic  of  art  and  letters ; and  is  it 
not  indirectly  to  a Bavarian  monarch  that  we  owe 
Wagner’s  immortal  chefs-d'oeuvre , and  hence  the 
musical  evolution  of  the  century  ? With  these  facts 
before  us  it  would  be  puerile  to  deny  that  in  the  past 
Royalty  has  lent  invaluable  assistance  in  the  protection 
and  development  of  art.  Even  if  we  turn  to  our  own 
country  we  find  at  least  one  monarch  who  could  dis- 
tinguish a painter  when  he  met  one.  Charles  the 
Second  did  not  hesitate  in  the  patronage  he  extended 
to  Vandyke,  and  it  is — as  I have  frequently  pointed 
out — to  the  influence  of  Vandyke  that  we  owe  all 
that  is  worthiest  and  valuable  in  English  art. 
Bearing  these  facts  in  mind — and  it  is  impossible  not 
to  bear  them  in  mind — it  is  difficult  to  go  to  the 


140 


ROYALTY  IN  ART. 


Victorian  Exhibition  and  not  ask : Does  the  present 
Royal  Family  exercise  any  influence  on  English  art  ? 
This  is  the  question  that  the  Victorian  Exhibition 
puts  to  us.  After  fifty  years  of  reign,  the  Queen 
throws  down  the  gauntlet;  and  speaking  through 
the  medium  of  the  Victorian  Exhibition,  she  says : 
“This  is  how  I have  understood  art;  this  is  what 
I have  done  for  art ; I countenance,  I court,  I 
challenge  inquiry.” 

Yes,  truly  the  Victorian  Exhibition  is  an  object- 
lesson  in  Royalty.  If  all  other  records  were  destroyed, 
the  historian,  five  hundred  years  hence,  could  recon- 
stitute the  psychological  characteristics,  the  mentality, 
of  the  present  reigning  family  from  the  pictures  on 
exhibition  there.  For  in  the  art  that  it  has  chosen  to 
patronise  (a  more  united  family  on  the  subject  of  art 
it  would  be  hard  to  imagine— nowhere  can  we  detect 
the  slightest  difference  of  opinion),  the  Queen,  her 
spouse,  and  her  children  appear  to  be  singularly 
bourgeois : a staid  German  family  congenially  and 
stupidly  commonplace,  accepting  a little  too  seriously 
its  mission  of  crowns  and  sceptres,  and  accomplishing 
its  duties,  grown  out  of  date,  somewhat  witlessly,  but 
with  heavy  dignity  and  forbearance.  Waiving  all 
racial  characteristics,  the  German  bourgeois  family  mind 
appears  plainly  enough  in  all  these  family  groups  ; no 
other  mind  could  have  permitted  the  perpetration 
of  so  much  stolid  family  placidity,  of  so  much 
“ frauism .”  “Exhibit  us  in  our  family  circle,  in 
our  coronation  robes,  in  our  wedding  dresses,  let 
the  likeness  be  correct  and  the  colours  bright — 
we  leave  the  rest  to  you.”  Such  seems  to  have 


ROYALTY  IN  ART. 


141 

been  the  Royal  artistic  edict  issued  in  the  beginning 
of  the  present  reign.  In  no  instance  has  the  choice 
fallen  on  a painter  of  talent ; but  the  middling  from 
every  country  in  Europe  seems  to  have  found  a ready 
welcome  at  the  Court  of  Queen  Victoria.  We  find 
there  middling  Germans,  middling  Italians,  middling 
Frenchmen — and  all  receiving  money  and  honour 
from  our  Queen. 

The  Queen  and  the  Prince  Consort  do  not  seem 
to  have  been  indifferent  to  art,  but  to  have  deliber- 
ately, and  with  xare  instinct,  always  picked  out 
what  was  most  worthless ; and  regarded  in  the  light 
of  documents,  these  pictures  are  valuable ; for  they 
tell  plainly  the  real  mind  of  the  Royal  Family. 
We  see  at  once  that  the  family  mind  is  wholly 
devoid  of  humour ; the  very  faintest  sense  of  humour 
would  have  saved  them  from  exhibiting  them- 
selves in  so  ridiculous  a light.  The  large  picture 
of  the  Queen  and  the  Prince  Consort  surrounded 
with  their  children,  the  Prince  Consort  in  knee- 
breeches,  showing  a finely-turned  calf,  is  sufficient 
to  occasion  the  overthrow  of  a dynasty  if  humour 
were  the  prerogative  of  the  many  instead  of  being 
that  of  the  few.  This  masterpiece  is  signed,  “ By 
G.  Belli,  after  F.  Winterhalter ; ” and  in  this 
picture  we  get  the  mediocrity  of  Italy  and  Germany 
in  quintessential  strength.  These  pictures  also  help 
us  to  realise  the  private  life  of  our  Royal  Family.  It 
must  have  spent  a great  deal  of  time  in  being  painted. 
The  family  pictures  are  numberless,  and  the  family 
taste  is  visible  upon  them  all.  And  there  must  be 
some  strange  magnetism  in  the  family  to  be  able  to 


142 


ROYALTY  IN  ART. 


transfuse  so  much  of  itself  into  the  minds  of  so  many 
painters.  So  like  is  one  picture  to  another,  that  the 
Exhibition  seems  to  reveal  the  secret  that  for  the  last 
fifty  years  the  family  has  done  nothing  but  paint 
itself.  And  in  these  days,  when  every  one  does  a little 
painting,  it  is  easy  to  imagine  the  family  at  work  from 
morn  to  eve.  Immediately  after  breakfast  the  easels 
are  set  up,  the  Queen  paints  the  Princess  Louise,  the 
Duke  of  Edinburgh  paints  Princess  Beatrice,  the 
Princess  Alice  paints  the  Prince  of  Wales,  etc.  The 
easels  are  removed  for  lunch,  and  the  moment  the 
meal  is  over  work  is  resumed 

After  having  seen  the  Victorian  Exhibition,  I cannot 
imagine  the  Royal  Family  in  any  other  way ; I am  con- 
vinced that  is  how  they  must  have  passed  their  lives  for 
the  last  quarter  of  a century.  The  names  of  G.  Belli 
and  F.  Winterhalter  are  no  more  than  flimsy  make- 
believes.  And  are  there  not  excellent  reasons  for  hold- 
ing to  this  opinion  ? Has  not  the  Queen  published, 
or  rather  surreptitiously  issued,  certain  little  collections 
of  drawings  ? Has  not  the  Princess  Louise,  the 
artist  of  the  family,  publicly  exhibited  sculpture? 
The  Princess  Beatrice,  has  she  not  done  something 
in  the  way  of  designing  ? The  Duke  of  Edinburgh, 
he  is  a musician.  And  it  is  in  these  little  excursions 
into  art  that  the  family  most  truly  manifests  its  hour - 
geois  nature.  The  sincerest  bourgeois  are  those  who 
scribble  little  poems  and  smudge  little  canvases  in 
the  intervals  between  an  afternoon  reception  and  a 
dinner-party.  The  amateur  artist  is  always  the  most 
inaccessible  to  ideas;  he  is  always  the  most  fervid 
admirer  of  the  commonplace.  A staid  German  family 


ROYALTY  IN  ART. 


T43 


dabbling  in  art  in  its  leisure  hours — the  most  in- 
artistic, the  most  Philistine  of  all  Royal  families — this 
is  the  lesson  that  the  Victorian  Exhibition  impresses 
upon  us. 

But  why  should  not  the  Royal  Family  decorate  its 
palaces  with  bad  art  ? Why  should  it  not  choose  the 
most  worthless  portrait  - painters  of  all  countries  ? 
Dynasties  have  never  been  overthrown  for  failure  in 
artistic  taste.  I am  aware  how  insignificant  the 
matter  must  seem  to  the  majority  of  readers,  and 
should  not  have  raised  the  question,  but  since  the 
question  has  been  raised,  and  by  her  Majesty,  I am 
well  within  my  right  in  attempting  a reply.  The 
Victorian  Exhibition  is  a flagrant  representation  of  a 
bourgeois , though  a royal,  family.  From  the  begin- 
ning to  the  end  the  Exhibition  is  this  and  nothing 
but  this.  In  the  Entrance  Hall,  at  the  doorway,  we 
are  confronted  with  the  Queen’s  chief  artistic  sin — 
Sir  Edgar  Boehm. 

Thirty  years  ago  this  mediocre  German  sculptor 
came  to  England.  The  Queen  discovered  him  at 
once,  as  if  by  instinct,  and  she  employed  him  on 
work  that  an  artist  would  have  shrunk  from — 
namely,  statuettes  in  Highland  costume.  The  Ger- 
man sculptor  turned  out  this  odious  and  ridiculous 
costume  as  fast  as  any  Scotch  tailor.  He  was  then 
employed  on  busts,  and  he  did  the  entire  Royal 
Family  in  marble.  Again,  it  would  be  hard  to  give  a 
reason  why  Royalty  should  not  be  allowed  to  possess 
bad  sculpture.  The  pity  is  that  the  private  taste  of 
Royalty  creates  the  public  taste  of  the  nation,  and 
the  public  result  of  the  gracious  interest  that  the 


144 


ROYALTY  IN  ART. 


Queen  was  pleased  to  take  in  Mr.  Edgar  Boehm,  is 
the  disfigurement  of  London  by  several  of  the  worst 
statues  it  is  possible  to  conceive.  It  is  bad  enough 
that  we  should  have  German  princes  foisted  upon  us, 
but  German  statues  are  worse.  The  ancient  site  of 
Temple  Bar  has  been  disfigured  by  Boehm  with 
statues  of  the  Queen  and  the  Prince  of  Wales,  so 
stupidly  conceived  and  so  stupidly  modelled  that  they 
look  like  figures  out  of  a Noah’s  Ark.  The  finest  site 
in  London,  Hyde  Park  Comer,  has  been  disfigured 
by  Boehm  with  a statue  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  so 
bad,  so  paltry,  so  characteristically  the  work  of  a 
German  mechanic,  that  it  is  impossible  to  drive  down 
the  beautiful  road  without  experiencing  a sensation  of 
discomfort  and  annoyance.  The  original  statue  that 
was  pulled  down  in  the  interests  of  Boehm  was,  it  is 
true,  bad  English,  but  bad  English  suits  the  landscape 
better  than  cheap  German.  And  this  disgraceful 
thing  will  remain,  disfiguring  the  finest  site  in  London, 
until,  perhaps,  some  dynamiter  blows  the  thing  up, 
ostensibly  to  serve  the  cause  of  Ireland,  but  really  in 
the  interests  of  art.  At  the  other  end  of  the  park  we 
have  the  Albert  Memorial.  We  sympathise  with  the 
Queen  in  her  grief  for  the  Prince  Consort,  but  we 
cannot  help  wishing  that  her  grief  were  expressed 
more  artistically. 

A city  so  naturally  beautiful  as  London  can  do 
without  statues ; the  question  is  not  so  much  how  to 
get  good  statues,  but  how  to  protect  London  against 
bad  statues.  If  for  the  next  twenty-five  years  we 
might  celebrate  the  memory  of  each  great  man  by  the 
destruction  of  a statue  we  might  undo  a great  part  of 


ROYALTY  IN  ART. 


T45 


the  mischief  for  which  Royalty  is  mainly  responsible. 
I do  not  speak  of  Boehm’s  Jubilee  coinage — the 
melting-pot  will  put  that  right  one  of  these  days — but 
his  statues,  beyond  some  slight  hope  from  the 
dynamiters,  will  be  always  with  us.  Had  he  lived, 
London  would  have  disappeared  under  his  statues ; at 
the  time  of  his  death  they  were  popping  up  by  twos 
and  threes  all  over  the  town.  Our  lovely  city  is  our 
inheritance ; London  should  be  to  the  Londoner 
what  Athens  is  to  the  Athenian.  What  would  the 
Athenians  have  thought  of  Pericles  if  he  had  proposed 
the  ornamentation  of  the  city  with  Persian  sculpture  ? 
Boehm  is  dead,  but  another  German  will  be  with  us 
before  long,  and,  under  Royal  patronage,  will  con- 
tinue the  odious  disfigurement  of  our  city.  If  our 
Royal  Family  possessed  any  slight  aesthetic  sense  its 
influence  might  be  turned  to  the  service  of  art ; but 
as  it  has  none,  it  would  be  well  for  Royalty  to  refrain. 
Art  can  take  care  of  itself  if  left  to  the  genius  of  the 
nation,  and  freed  from  foreign  control.  The  Prince 
of  Wales  has  never  affected  any  artistic  sympathies. 
For  this  we  are  thankful : we  have  nothing  to  reproach 
him  with  except  the  unfortunate  “ Roll-call  ” incident. 
Royalty  is  to-day  but  a social  figment — it  has  long 
ago  ceased  to  control  our  politics.  Would  that 
Royalty  would  take  another  step  and  abandon  its 
influence  in  art. 


10 


ART  PATRONS. 


The  general  art  patron  in  England  is  a brewer  ot 
distiller.  Five-and-forty  is  the  age  at  which  he  begins 
to  make  his  taste  felt  in  the  art  world,  and  the  cause 
of  his  collection  is  the  following,  or  an  analogous 
reason.  After  a heavy  dinner,  when  the  smoke-cloud 
is  blowing  lustily,  Brown  says  to  Smith  : “ I know  you 
don’t  care  for  pictures,  so  you  wouldn’t  think  that 
Leader  was  worth  fifteen  hundred  pounds;  well, 
I paid  all  that,  and  something  more  too,  at  the  last 
Academy  for  it.”  Smith,  who  has  never  heard  of 
Leader,  turns  slowly  round  on  his  chair,  and  his  brain, 
stupefied  with  strong  wine  and  tobacco,  gradually 
becomes  aware  of  a village  by  a river  bank  seen  in 
black  silhouette  upon  a sunset  sky.  Wine  and  food 
have  made  him  happily  sentimental,  and  he  remembers 
having  seen  a village  looking  very  like  that  village 
when  he  was  paying  his  attentions  to  the  eldest  Miss 
Jones.  Yes,  it  was  looking  like  that,  all  quite  sharp 
and  clear  on  a yellow  sky,  and  the  trees  were  black 
and  still  just  like  those  trees.  Smith  determines  that 
he  too  shall  possess  a Leader.  He  may  not  be  quite 
as  big  a man  as  Brown,  but  he  has  been  doing  pretty 
well  lately.  . . . There’s  no  reason  why  he  shouldn’t 
have  a Leader.  So  irredeemable  mischief  has  been 


ART  PATRONS. 


147 


done  at  Brown’s  dinner-party : another  five  or  six 
thousand  a year  will  henceforth  exert  its  mighty 
influence  in  the  service  of  bad  art. 

Poor  Smith,  who  never  looked  attentively  at  a 
picture  before,  does  not  see  that  what  inspires  such 
unutterable  memories  of  Ethel  Jones  is  but  a magnified 
Christmas  card ; the  dark  trees  do  not  suggest  treacle 
to  him,  nor  the  sunset  sky  the  rich  cream  which  he  is 
beginning  to  feel  he  partook  of  too  freely ; he  does 
not  see  the  thin  drawing,  looking  as  if  it  had  been 
laboriously  scratched  out  with  a nail,  nor  yet  the 
feeble  handling  which  suggests  a child  and  a pot  of 
gum.  But  of  technical  achievement  how  should  Mr. 
Smith  know  anything? — that  mysterious  something, 
different  in  every  artist,  taking  a thousand  forms,  and 
yet  always  recognisable  to  the  educated  eye.  How 
should  poor  Smith  see  anything  in  the  picture  except 
what  Mr.  Whistler  wittily  calls  “rather  a foolish 
sunset”?  To  perceive  Mr.  Leader’s  deficiency  in 
technical  accomplishment  may  seem  easy  to  the 
young  girl  who  has  studied  drawing  for  six  months 
at  South  Kensington ; but  Smith  is  a stupid  man 
who  has  money-grubbed  for  five-and-twenty  years  in 
the  City ; and  through  the  fumes  of  wine  and  tobacco 
he  resolves  to  have  a Leader.  He  does  not  hesitate, 
he  consults  no  one — and  why  should  he  ? Mr. 
Leader  put  R.A.  after  his  name — he  charges  fifteen 
hundred.  Besides,  the  village  on  the  river  bank  with 
a sunset  behind  is  obviously  a beautiful  thing.  . . . 
The  mischief  has  been  done,  the  irredeemable  mischief 
has  been  achieved.  Smith  buys  a Leader,  and  the 
Leader  begets  a Long,  the  Long  begets  a Fildes, 


143 


ART  RATROJVS. 


the  Fildes  begets  a Dicksee,  the  Dicksee  begets  a 
Herkomer. 

Such  is  the  genesis  of  Mr.  Smithes  collection, 
and  it  is  typical  of  a hundred  now  being  formed 
in  London.  In  ten  years  Mr.  Smith  has  laid 
out  forty  or  fifty  thousand  pounds.  He  asks  his 
friends  if  they  don’t  like  his  collection  quite  as  well  as 
Brown’s  : he  urges  that  he  can’t  see  much  difference 
himself.  Nor  is  there  much  difference.  The  same 
articles — that  is  to  say,  identically  similar  articles — 
vulgarly  painted  sunsets,  vulgarly  painted  doctors, 
vulgarly  painted  babies,  vulgarly  painted  manor-houses 
with  saddle-horses  and  a young  lady  hesitating  on  the 
steps,  have  been  acquired  at  or  about  the  same  prices. 
The  popular  R.A.s  have  appealed  to  popular  senti- 
ment, and  popular  sentiment  has  responded ; and  the 
City  has  paid  the  price.  But  Time  is  not  at  all  a 
sentimental  person : he  is  quite  unaffected  by  the 
Adelphi  reality  of  the  doctor’s  face  or  the  mawkish 
treacle  of  the  village  church  ; and  when  the  collection 
is  sold  at  auction  twenty  years  hence,  it  will  fetch  about 
a fourth  of  the  price  that  was  paid. 

Mr.  Smith’s  artistic  taste  knows  no  change ; it  was 
formed  on  Mr.  Brown’s  Leader,  and  developing 
logically  from  it,  passing  through  Long,  Fildes,  and 
Dicksee,  it  touches  high-water  mark  at  Hook.  The 
pretty  blue  sea  and  the  brown  fisher-folk  call  for 
popular  admiration  almost  as  imperatively  as  the 
sunset  in  the  village  churchyard ; and  when  an  artist 
— for  in  his  adventures  among  dealers  Mr.  Smith  met 
one  or  two — points  out  how  much  less  like  treacle 
Mr.  Hook  is  than  Mr.  Leader,  and  how  much  more 


ART  PATRONS. 


149 


flowing  and  supple  the  drawing  of  the  sea-shore  is 
than  the  village  seen  against  the  sunset,  Mr.  Smith 
thinks  he  understands  what  is  meant.  But  remember- 
ing the  fifteen  hundred  pounds  he  paid  for  the  cream 
sky  and  the  treacle  trees,  he  is  quite  sure  that  nothing 
could  be  better. 

The  ordinary  perception  of  the  artistic  value  of  a 
picture  does  not  arise  above  Mr.  Smith’s.  I have 
studied  the  artistic  capacity  of  the  ordinary  mind 
long  and  diligently,  and  I know  my  analysis  of  it 
is  exact ; and  if  I do  not  exaggerate  the  artistic 
incapabilities  of  Mr.  Smith,  it  must  be  admitted 
that  the  influence  which  his  money  permits  him  to 
exercise  in  the  art  world  is  an  evil  influence,  and 
is  exercised  persistently  to  the  very  great  detriment 
of  the  real  artist.  But  it  will  be  said  that  the 
moneyed  man  cannot  be  forbidden  to  buy  the 
pictures  that  please  him.  No,  but  men  should  not 
be  elected  Academicians  merely  because  their  pic- 
tures are  bought  by  City  men,  and  this  is  just  what 
is  done.  Do  not  think  that  Sir  John  Millais  is 
unaware  that  Mr.  Long’s  pictures,  artistically  con- 
sidered, are  quite  worthless.  Do  not  think  that 
Mr.  Orchardson  does  not  turn  in  contempt  from 
Mr.  Leader’s  tea-trays.  Do  not  think  that  every 
artist,  however  humble,  however  ignorant,  does  not 
know  that  Mr.  Goodall’s  portrait  of  Mrs.  Kettlewell 
stands  quite  beyond  the  range  of  criticism.  Mr. 
Long,  Mr.  Leader,  and  Mr.  Goodall  were  not  elected 
Academicians  because  the  Academicians  who  voted 
for  them  approved  of  their  pictures,  but  because 
Mr.  Smith  and  his  like  purchased  their  pictures ; 


ART  PATRONS. 


XS° 

and  by  electing  these  painters  to  Academic  honours 
the  taste  of  Mr.  Smith  receives  official  confirmation. 

The  public  can  distinguish  very  readily- — far  better 
than  it  gets  credit  for — between  bad  literature  and 
good ; nor  is  the  public  deaf  to  good  music,  but 
the  public  seems  quite  powerless  to  distinguish 
between  good  painting  and  bad.  No,  I am  wrong; 
it  distinguishes  very  well  between  bad  painting  and 
good,  only  it  invariably  prefers  the  bad.  The 
language  of  speech  we  are  always  in  progress  of 
learning ; and  the  language  of  music  being  similar 
to  that  of  speech,  it  becomes  easier  to  hear  that 
Wagner  is  superior  to  Rossini  than  to  see  that 
Whistler  is  better  than  Leader.  Of  all  languages 
none  is  so  difficult,  so  varying,  so  complex,  so 
evanescent,  as  that  of  paint ; and  yet  it  is  precisely 
the  works  written  in  this  language  that  every  one 
believes  himself  able  to  understand,  and  ready  to 
purchase  at  the  expense  of  a large  part  of  his 
fortune.  If  I could  make  such  folk  understand 
how  illusory  is  their  belief,  what  a service  I should 
render  to  art — if  I could  only  make  them  understand 
that  the  original  taste  of  man  is  always  for  the 
obvious  and  the  commonplace,  and  that  it  is  only 
by  great  labour  and  care  that  man  learns  to  under- 
stand as  beautiful  that  which  the  uneducated  eye 
considers  ugly. 

Why  will  the  art  patron  never  take  advice?  I 
should  seek  it  if  I bought  pictures.  If  Degas  were 
to  tell  me  that  a picture  I had  intended  to  buy  was 
not  a good  one  I should  not  buy  it,  and  if  Degas 
were  to  praise  a picture  in  which  I could  see  no 


ART  PATRONS. 


merit  I should  buy  it  and  look  at  it  until  I did. 
Such  confession  will  make  me  appear  weak-minded 
to  many ; but  this  is  so,  because  much  instruction  is 
necessary  even  to  understand  how  infinitely  more 
Degas  knows  than  any  one  else  can  possibly  know. 
The  art  patron  never  can  understand  as  much  about 
art  as  the  artist,  but  he  can  learn  a good  deal.  It 
is  fifteen  years  since  I went  to  Degas’s  studio  for  the 
first  time.  I looked  at  his  portraits,  at  his  marvel- 
lous ballet-girls,  at  the  washerwomen,  and  understood 
nothing  of  what  I saw.  My  blindness  to  Degas’s 
merit  alarmed  me  not  a little,  and  I said  to  Manet — 
to  whom  I paid  a visit  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon 
— “ It  is  very  odd,  Manet,  I understand  your  work, 
but  for  the  life  of  me  I cannot  see  the  great  merit  you 
attribute  to  Degas.”  To  hear  that  some  one  has  not 
understood  your  rival’s  work  as  well  as  he  understands 
your  own  is  sweet  flattery,  and  Manet  only  murmured 
under  his  breath  that  it  was  very  odd,  since  there 
were  astonishing  things  in  Degas. 

Since  those  days  I have  learnt  to  understand  Degas ; 
but  unfortunately  I have  not  been  able  to  transmit 
my  knowledge  to  any  one.  When  important  pictures 
by  Degas  could  be  bought  for  a hundred  and  a 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  apiece,  I tried  hard  to 
persuade  some  City  merchants  to  buy  them.  They 
only  laughed  and  told  me  they  liked  Long  better. 
Degas  has  gone  up  fifty  per  cent.,  Long  has  declined 
fifty  per  cent.  Whistler’s  can  be  bought  to-day  for 
comparatively  small  prices  j1  in  twenty  years  they  will 
cost  three  times  as  much ; in  twenty  years  Mr. 

1 This  was  written  before  the  Whistler  boom. 


152 


ART  PATRONS. 


Leader’s  pictures  will  probably  not  be  worth  half  as 
much  as  they  are  to-day.  What  I am  saying  is  the 
merest  commonplace,  what  every  artist  knows ; but 
go  to  an  art  patron — a City  merchant — and  ask  him 
to  pay  five  hundred  for  a Degas,  and  he  will  laugh 
at  you ; he  will  say,  “ Why,  I could  get  a Dicksee  or 
a Leader  for  a thousand  or  two.” 


PICTURE  DEALERS. 


In  the  eighteenth  century,  and  the  centuries  that 
preceded  it,  artists  were  visited  by  their  patrons,  who 
bought  what  the  artist  had  to  sell,  and  commissioned 
him  to  paint  what  he  was  pleased  to  paint.  But  in 
our  time  the  artist  is  visited  by  a showily-dressed 
man,  who  comes  into  the  studio  whistling,  his  hat  on 
the  back  of  his  head.  This  is  the  West-End  dealer: 
he  throws  himself  into  an  arm-chair,  and  if  there  is 
nothing  on  the  easels  that  appeals  to  the  uneducated 
eye,  the  dealer  lectures  the  artist  on  his  folly  in  not 
considering  the  exigencies  of  public  taste.  On  public 
taste — that  is  to  say,  on  the  uneducated  eye — the 
dealer  is  a very  fine  authority.  His  father  was  a 
dealer  before  him,  and  the  son  was  brought  up  on 
prices,  he  lisped  in  prices,  and  was  taught  to 
reverence  prices.  He  cannot  see  the  pictures  for 
prices,  and  he  lies  back,  looking  round  distractedly, 
not  listening  to  the  timid,  struggling  artist  who  is 
foolishly  venturing  an  explanation.  Perhaps  the 
public  might  come  to  his  style  of  painting  if  he  were 
to  persevere.  The  dealer  stares  at  the  ceiling,  and 
his  lips  recall  his  last  evening  at  the  music-hall.  If 
the  public  don’t  like  it — why,  they  don’t  like  it,  and 
the  sooner  the  artist  comes  round  the  better.  That 
is  what  he  has  to  say  on  the  subject,  and,  if  sneers 
and  sarcasm  succeed  in  bringing  the  artist  round  to 


*54 


PICTURE  DEALERS. 


popular  painting,  the  dealer  buys ; and  when  he 
begins  to  feel  sure  that  the  uneducated  eye  really 
hungers  for  the  new  man,  he  speaks  about  getting  up 
a boom  in  the  newspapers. 

The  Press  is  in  truth  the  great  dupe;  the  unpaid 
jackal  that  goes  into  the  highways  and  byways  for 
the  dealer ! The  stockbroker  gets  the  Bouguereau, 
the  Herkomer,  the  Alfred  East,  and  the  Dagnan- 
Bouveret  that  his  soul  sighs  for ; but  the  Press  gets 
nothing  except  unreadable  copy,  and  yet  season  after 
season  the  Press  falls  into  the  snare.  It  seems  only 
necessary  for  a dealer  to  order  an  artist  to  frame  the 
contents  of  his  sketch-book,  and  to  design  an  invita- 
tion card — “ Scenes  on  the  Coast  of  Denmark,” 
sketches  made  by  Mr.  So-and-so  during  the  months 
of  June,  July,  and  August — to  secure  half  a column 
of  a goodly  number  of  London  and  provincial  papers 
— -to  put  it  plainly,  an  advertisement  that  Reckitts  or 
Pears  or  Beecham  could  not  get  for  hundreds  of 
pounds.  One  side  of  the  invitation  card  is  filled  up 
with  a specimen  design,  usually  such  a futile  little 
thing  as  we  might  expect  to  find  in  a young  lady’s 
sketch-book:  “Copenhagen  at  Low  Tide,”  “Copen- 
hagen at  High  Tide,”  “ View  of  the  Cathedral  from 

the  Mouth  of  the  River,”  “ The  Hills  of as  seen 

from  off  the  Coast.”  And  this  topography  every  art 
critic  will  chronicle,  and  his  chronicling  will  be 
printed  free  of  charge  amongst  the  leading  columns  of 
the  paper.  Nor  is  this  the  worst  case.  The  request 
to  notice  a collection  of  paintings  and  drawings  made 
by  the  late  Mr.  So-and-so  seems  even  more  flagrant, 
for  then  there  is  no  question  of  benefiting  a young 


PICTURE  DEALERS. 


155 


artist  who  stands  in  need  of  encouragement  or  recog- 
nition; the  show  is  simply  a dealer’s  exhibition  of  his 
ware.  True,  that  the  ware  may  be  so  rare  and 
excellent  that  it  becomes  a matter  of  public  interest; 
if  so,  the  critic  is  bound  to  notice  the  show.  But  the 
ordinary  show — a collection  of  works  by  a tenth-rate 
French  artist — why  should  the  Press  advertise  such 
wares  gratis?  The  public  goes  to  theatres  and  to 
flower-shows  and  to  race-courses,  but  it  does  not  go 
to  these  dealers’  shows — the  dealer’s  friends  and 
acquaintances  go  on  private  view  day,  and  for 
the  rest  of  the  season  the  shop  is  quieter  than  the 
tobacconist’s  next  door. 

For  the  last  month  every  paper  I took  up  con- 
tained glowing  accounts  of  Messrs.  Tooth  & 
MacLean’s  galleries  (picture  dealers  do  not  keep 
shops — they  keep  galleries),  glowing  accounts  of  a 
large  and  extensive  assortment  of  Dagnan-Bouveret, 
Bouguereau,  Rosa  Bonheur:  very  nice  things  in 
their  way,  just  such  things  as  I would  take  Alderman 
Samuelson  to  see. 

These  notices,  taken  out  in  the  form  of  legitimate 
advertisement,  would  run  into  hundreds  of  pounds ; 
and  I am  quite  at  a loss  to  understand  why  the  Press 
abandons  so  large  a part  of  its  revenue.  For  if  the 
Press  did  not  notice  these  exhibitions,  the  dealers 
would  be  forced  into  the  advertising  columns,  and 
when  a little  notice  was  published  of  the  ware,  it 
would  be  done  as  a little  return — as  a little  encourage- 
ment for  advertising,  on  the  same  principle  as  ladies’ 
papers  publish  visits  to  dressmakers.  The  present 
system  of  noticing  Messrs.  Tooth’s  and  not  noticing 


PICTURE  DEALERS \ 


IS6 

Messrs.  Pears’  is  to  me  wholly  illogical ; and,  to  use 
the  word  which  makes  every  British  heart  beat 
quicker — unbusinesslike.  But  with  business  I have 
nothing  to  do — my  concern  is  with  art ; and  if  the 
noticing  of  dealers’  shows  were  not  inimical  to  art,  I 
should  not  have  a word  to  say  against  the  practice. 
Messrs.  Tooth  & MacLean  trade  in  Salon  and 
Academy  pictures,  so  the  notices  the  Press  prints  are 
the  equivalent  of  a subvention  granted  by  the  Press 
for  the  protection  of  this  form  of  art.  If  I were  a 
statistician,  it  would  interest  me  to  turn  over  the  files 
of  the  newspapers  for  the  last  fifty  years  and  calculate 
how  much  Messrs.  Agnew  have  had  out  of  the  Press  in 
the  shape  of  free  advertisement.  And  when  we  think 
what  sort  of  art  this  vast  sum  of  money  went  to  support, 
we  cease  to  wonder  at  the  decline  of  public  taste. 

My  quarrel  is  no  more  with  Messrs.  Agnew  than 
it  is  with  Messrs.  Tooth  & MacLean ; my  quarrel — 
I should  say,  my  reprimand — is  addressed  to  the 
Press — to  the  Press  that  foolishly,  unwittingly,  not 
knowing  what  it  was  doing,  threw  such  power  into 
the  hands  of  the  dealers  that  our  exhibitions  are  now 
little  more  than  the  tributaries  of  the  Bond  Street 
shop?  This  statement  will  shock  many;  but  let 
them  think,  and  they  will  see  it  could  not  be  other- 
wise. Messrs.  Agnew  have  thousands  and  thousands 
of  pounds  invested  in  the  Academy — that  is  to  say, 
in  the  works  of  Academicians.  When  they  buy  the 
work  of  any  one  outside  of  the  Academy,  they  talk 
very  naturally  of  their  new  man  to  their  friends  the 
Academicians,  and  the  Academicians  are  anxious  to 
please  their  best  customer.  It  was  in  some  such  way 


PICTURE  DEALERS. 


157 

that  Mr.  Burne-Jones’s  election  was  decided.  For 
Mr.  Burne-Jones  was  held  in  no  Academic  esteem. 
His  early  pictures  had  been  refused  at  Burlington 
House,  and  he  resolved  never  to  send  there  again. 
For  many  years  he  remained  firm  in  his  determination. 
In  the  meantime  the  public  showed  unmistakable 
signs  of  accepting  Mr.  Jones,  whereupon  Messrs. 
Agnew  also  accepted  Mr.  Jones.  Mr.  Jones  was 
popular ; he  was  better  than  popular,  he  stood  on  the 
verge  of  popularity;  but  there  was  nothing  like 
making  things  safe — Jones’s  election  to  the  Academy 
would  do  that.  Jones’s  scruples  would  have  to  be 
overcome;  he  must  exhibit  once  in  the  Academy. 
The  Academicians  would  be  satisfied  with  that.  Mr. 
Jones  did  exhibit  in  the  Academy;  he  was  elected 
on  the  strength  of  this  one  exhibit.  He  has  never 
exhibited  since.  These  are  the  facts : confute  them 
who  may,  explain  them  who  can. 

It  is  true  that  the  dealer  cannot  be  got  rid  of — he 
is  a vice  inherent  in  our  civilisation ; but  if  the  Press 
withdrew  its  subvention,  his  monopoly  would  be 
curtailed,  and  art  would  be  recruited  by  new  talent,  at 
present  submerged.  Art  would  gradually  withdraw 
from  the  bluster  and  boom  of  an  arrogant  com- 
mercialism, and  would  attain  her  olden  dignity — that 
of  a quiet  handicraft.  And  in  this  great  reformation 
only  two  classes  would  suffer — the  art  critics  and  the 
dealers.  The  newspaper  proprietors  would  profit 
largely,  and  the  readers  of  newspapers  would  profit 
still  more  largely,  for  they  would  no  longer  be  bored 
by  the  publication  of  dealers’  catalogues  expanded 
with  insignificant  comment. 


MR.  BURNE-JONES 


iS3 


MR.  BURNE-JONES  AND  THE  ACADEMY. 

To  the  Editor  of  “ The  Speaker .” 

Sir, — Your  art  critic  “ G.  M.”  is  in  error  on  a matter  of 
fact,  and  as  everybody  knows  the  relationship  between 
fact  and  theory,  I am  afraid  his  little  error  vitiates  the 
argument  he  propounds  with  so  much  vigour.  It  was 
after > and  not  before,  his  election  as  an  Associate  that 
Mr.  Burne-Jones  made  his  solitary  appearance  as  an 
exhibitor  at  the  Royal  Academy. — Yours  truly,  etc., 

R.  L 


AND  THE  ACADEMY. 


159 


To  the  Editor  of  “ The  Speaker .” 

Sir, — It  has  always  been  my  rule  not  to  enter  into 
argument  with  my  critics,  but  in  the  instance  of  “ R.  I.” 
I find  myself  obliged  to  break  my  rule.  “ R.  I.” 
thinks  that  the  mistake  I slipped  into  regarding  Mr. 
Burne-Jones’s  election  as  an  Associate  vitiates  the 
argument  which  he  says  I propound  with  vigour.  I, 
on  the  contrary,  think  that  the  fact  that  Mr.  Burne- 
Jones  was  elected  as  an  Associate  before  he  had 
exhibited  in  the  Royal  Academy  advances  my  argu- 
ment. Being  in  doubt  as  to  the  particular  fact,  I 
unconsciously  imagined  the  general  fact,  and  when 
man’s  imagination  intervenes  it  is  always  to  soften,  to 
attenuate  crudities  which  only  nature  is  capable  of. 

For  twenty  years,  possibly  for  more,  Mr.  Burne- 
Jones  was  a resolute  opponent  of  the  Royal 
Academy,  as  resolute,  though  not  so  truculent,  an 
opponent  as  Mr.  Whistler.  When  he  became  a 
popular  painter  Mr.  Agnew  gave  him  a commission 
of  fifteen  thousand  pounds — the  largest,  I believe, 
ever  given — to  paint  four  pictures,  the  “ Briar 
Rose”  series.  Some  time  after — before  he  has 

exhibited  in  the  Academy — Mr.  Jones  is  elected  as  an 
Associate.  The  Academicians  cannot  plead  that  their 
eyes  were  suddenly  opened  to  his  genius.  If  this 
miracle  had  happened  they  would  not  have  left  him 
an  Associate,  but  would  have  on  the  first  vacancy 
elected  him  a full  Academician.  How  often  have  they 
passed  him  over?  Is  Mr.  Jones  the  only  instance  of  a 
man  being  elected  to  the  Academy  who  had  never 
exhibited  there?  Perhaps  “ R.  I.”  will  tell  us.  I do 
not  know,  and  have  not  time  to  hunt  up  records. 

G.  M. 


THE  ALDERMAN  IN  ART. 


Manchester  and  Liverpool  are  rival  cities.  They 
have  matched  themselves  one  against  the  other,  and 
the  prize  they  are  striving  for  is — Which  shall  be  the 
great  art-centre  of  the  North  of  England.  The  artistic 
rivalry  of  the  two  cities  has  become  obvious  of  late 
years.  Manchester  bids  against  Liverpool,  Liverpool 
bids  against  Manchester;  the  results  of  the  bidding 
are  discussed,  and  so  an  interest  in  art  is  created.  It 
was  Manchester  that  first  threw  her  strength  into  this 
artistic  rivalry.  It  began  with  the  decorations  which 
Manchester  commissioned  Mr.  Madox  Brown  to  paint 
for  the  town  hall.  Manchester’s  choice  of  an  artist  was 
an  excellent  and  an  original  one.  Mr.  Madox  Brown 
was  not  an  Academician ; he  was  not  known  to  the 
general  public;  he  merely  commanded  the  respect 
of  his  brother-artists. 

The  painting  of  these  pictures  was  the  work  of 
years ; the  placing  of  every  one  was  duly  chronicled 
in  the  press,  and  it  was  understood  in  London  that 
Manchester  was  entirely  satisfied.  But  lo ! on  the 
placing  in  position  of  the  last  picture  but  one  of 
the  series  an  unseemly  dispute  was  raised  by  some 
members  of  the  Corporation,  and  it  was  seriously 
debated  in  committee  whether  the  best  course  to 
pursue  would  not  be  to  pass  a coat  of  whitewash  over 


THE  ALDERMAN  IN  ART 


161 


the  offending  picture.  It  is  impossible  to  comment 
adequately  on  such  barbarous  conduct ; perhaps  at 
no  distant  date  it  will  be  proposed  to  burn  some  part 
of  Mrs.  Ryland’s  perfect  gift — the  Althorp  Library. 
There  may  be  some  books  in  that  library  which  do 
not  meet  with  some  councillor’s  entire  approval.  Bar- 
barism on  one  side,  and  princely  generosity  on  the 
other,  combined  to  fix  attention  upon  Manchester, 
and,  in  common  with  a hundred  others,  I found  my- 
self thinking  on  the  relation  of  Manchester  and  Liver- 
pool to  art,  and  speculating  on  the  direction  that  these 
new  influences  were  taking. 

There  are  two  exhibitions  now  open  in  Manchester 
and  Liverpool — the  permanent  and  the  annual.  The 
permanent  collections  must  first  occupy  our  attention, 
for  it  is  through  them  that  we  shall  learn  what  sort 
and  kind  of  artistic  taste  obtains  in  the  North.  At 
first  sight  these  collections  present  no  trace  of  any 
distinct  influence.  They  seem  to  be  simply  miscel- 
laneous purchases,  made  from  every  artist  whose 
name  happens  to  be  the  fashion ; and  considered  as 
permanent  illustrations  of  the  various  fashions  that 
have  prevailed  in  Bond  Street  during  the  last  ten 
years,  these  collections  are  curious  and  perhaps  valu- 
able documents  in  the  history  of  art.  But  is  there 
any  real  analogy  between  a dressmaker’s  shop  and  a 
picture  gallery?  Plumes  are  bought  because  they 
are  “very  much  worn  just  now,”  but  then  plumes 
are  not  so  expensive  as  pictures,  and  it  seems  to  be 
hardly  worth  while  to  buy  pictures  for  the  sake  of  the 
momentary  fashion  in  painting  which  they  represent. 

Manchester  and  Liverpool  have  not,  however, 

T I 


1 62 


THE  ALDERMAN  IN  ART 


grasped  the  essential  fact  that  it  is  impossible  to  form 
an  art  gallery  by  sending  to  London  for  the  latest 
fashions.  Now  and  then  the  advice  of  some  gentleman 
knowing  more  about  art  than  his  colleagues  has  found 
expression  in  the  purchase  of  a work  of  art ; but  the 
picture  that  hangs  next  to  the  fortuitous  purchase  tells 
how  the  taste  of  the  cultured  individual  was  over- 
ruled by  the  taste  of  the  uncultured  mass  at  the  next 
meeting.  I could  give  many,  but  two  instances  must 
suffice  to  explain  and  to  prove  my  point.  Two  years 
ago  Mr.  Albert  Moore  exhibited  a very  beautiful 
picture  in  the  Academy-three  women,  one  sleeping 
and  two  sitting  on  a yellow  couch,  in  front  of  a star- 
lit and  moonlit  sea.  In  the  same  Academy  there 
was  exhibited  a picture  by  Mr.  Bartlett — a picture  of 
some  gondoliers  rowing  or  punting  or  sculling  (I  am 
ignorant  of  the  aquatic  habits  of  the  Venetians)  for  a 
prize.  The  Liverpool  Gallery  has  bought  and  hung 
these  pictures  side  by  side.  Such  divagations  of  taste 
make  the  visitor  smile,  and  he  thinks  perforce  of  the 
accounts  of  the  stormy  meetings  of  councillors  that 
find  their  way  into  the  papers.  Artistic  appreciation 
of  these  two  pictures  in  the  same  individual  is  not 
possible.  What  should  we  think  of  a man  who  said 
that  he  did  not  know  which  he  preferred — a poem  by 
Tennyson,  or  a story  out  of  the  London  Journal ? 
Catholicity  of  taste  does  not  mean  an  absolute  aban- 
donment of  all  discrimination;  and  some  thread  of 
intellectual  kinship  must  run  through  the  many  various 
manifestations  of  artistic  temperament  which  go  to 
form  a collection  of  pictures.  Things  may  be  various 
without  being  discrepant. 


THE  ALDERMAN  IN  ART. 


163 


The  Manchester  Gallery  has  purchased  Lawson’s 
beautiful  picture,  “The  Deserted  Garden”;  likewise 
Mr.  Fildes’  picture  of  a group  of  Venetian  girls 
sitting  on  steps,  the  principal  figure  in  a blue  dress 
with  an  orange  handkerchief  round  her  neck,  the 
simple — I may  say  child-like — scheme  of  colour 
beyond  which  Mr.  Fildes  never  seems  to  stray.  The 
Lawson  and  the  Fildes  agree  no  better  than  do  the 
Moore  and  the  Bartlett ; and  the  only  thing  that 
occurs  to  me  is  that  the  cities  should  toss  up  which 
should  go  for  Fildes  and  Bartlett,  and  which  for  Law- 
son  and  Moore.  By  such  division  harmony  would  be 
attained,  and  one  city  would  be  going  the  wrong  road, 
the  other  the  right  road ; at  present  both  are  going 
zigzag. 

But  notwithstanding  the  multifarious  tastes  dis- 
played in  these  collections,  and  the  artistic  chaos  they 
represent,  we  can,  when  we  examine  them  closely, 
detect  an  influence  which  abides  though  it  fluctuates, 
and  this  influence  is  that  of  our  discredited  Academy. 
The  Manchester  and  Liverpool  collection  are  merely 
weak  reflections  of  the  Chan  trey  Fund  collection. 
Now,  if  the  object  of  these  cities  be  to  adopt  the 
standard  of  taste  that  obtains  in  Burlington  House,  to 
abdicate  their  own  taste — if  they  have  any — and  to 
fortify  themselves  against  all  chance  of  acquiring  a 
taste  in  art,  it  would  clearly  be  better  for  the  two  cor- 
porations to  hand  over  the  task  of  acquiring  pictures 
to  the  Academicians.  The  responsibility  will  be 
gladly  accepted,  and  the  trust  will  be  administered 
with  the  same  honesty  and  straightforwardness  as 
has  been  displayed  in  the  administration  of  the  moneys 


164 


THE  ALDERMAN  IN  ART 


which  the  unfortunate  Chantrey  entrusted  to  the  care 
of  the  Academicians. 

The  sowing  of  evil  seed  is  an  irreparable  evil ; none 
can  tell  where  the  wind  will  carry  it,  and  unexpected 
crops  are  found  far  and  wide.  I had  thought  that 
the  harm  occasioned  to  art  by  the  Academy  and  its 
corollary,  the  Chantrey  Fund,  began  and  ended  in 
London.  But  in  Manchester  and  Liverpool  I was 
speedily  convinced  of  my  mistake.  Art  in  the 
provinces  is  little  more  than  a reflection  of  the 
Academy.  The  majority  of  the  pictures  represent 
the  taste  of  men  who  have  no  knowledge  of  art,  and 
who,  to  disguise  their  ignorance,  follow  the  advice 
which  the  Academy  gives  to  provincial  England  in 
the  pictures  it  purchases  under  the  terms — or,  rather, 
under  its  own  reading  of  the  terms — of  the  Chantrey 
Bequest  Fund.  One  of  the  first  things  I heard  in 
Manchester  was  that  the  committee  had  been  fortunate 
enough  to  secure  the  nude  figure  which  Mr.  Hacker 
exhibited  this  year  in  the  Academy.  And  on  my 
failing  to  express  unbounded  admiration  for  the 
purchase,  I was  asked  if  I was  aware  that  the 
Academy  had  purchased  “The  Annunciation”  for 
the  Chantrey  Bequest  Fund.  “ Surely,”  said  a mem- 
ber of  the  committee,  “you  agree  that  our  picture 
is  the  better  of  the  two.”  I answered:  “Poor  Mr. 
Chantrey’s  money  always  goes  to  buy  the  worst,  or  as 
nearly  as  possible  the  worst,  picture  the  artist  ever 
painted — the  picture  for  which  the  artist  would  never 
be  likely  to  find  a purchaser.” 

Last  month  the  Liverpool  County  Council  assembled 
to  discuss  the  purchase  of  two  pictures  recommended 


THE  ALDERMAN  IN  ART  165 

by  the  art  committee — “Summer,”  by  Mr.  Hornel; 
and  “ The  Higher  Alps,”  by  Mr.  Stott,  of  Oldham. 
The  discussion  that  ensued  is  described  by  the 
Liverpool  Daily  Post  as  “amusing.”  It  was  ludicrous, 
and  those  who  do  not  care  a snap  of  the  fingers  about 
art  might  think  it  amusing.  The  joke  was  started  by 
Mr.  Lynskey,  who  declared  that  the  two  pictures  in 
question  were  mere  daubs.  Mr.  Lynskey  did  not 
think  that  the  Glasgow  school  of  painting  had  yet 
been  recognised  by  the  public,  and  until  it  had  he 
did  not  see  why  the  corporation  should  pay  jQ 500  for 
these  two  productions,  merely  for  the  sake  of  experi- 
menting. Thereby  we  are  to  understand  that  in 
forming  a collection  of  pictures  it  is  the  taste  of  the 
public  that  must  be  considered.  “Of  course,”  cry 
the  aldermen;  “we  are  here  to  supply  the  public 
with  what  it  wants.”  I repeat,  the  corporations  of 
Manchester  and  Liverpool  do  not  seem  to  have  yet 
grasped  the  fact  that  there  is  no  real  analogy  between 
a picture  gallery  and  a dressmaker’s  shop. 

The  next  speaker  was  Mr.  Burgess.  He  could  not 
imagine  how  any  one  could  recommend  the  purchase 
of  such  pictures.  The  Mr.  Burgesses  of  twenty-five 
years  ago  could  not  understand  how  any  one  could 
buy  Corots.  Mr.  Smith  asked  if  it  were  really  a fact 
that  the  committee  had  bought  the  pictures.  He  was 
assured  that  they  would  be  bought  only  if  the  council 
approved  of  them ; whereupon  Alderman  Samuelson 
declared  that  if  that  were  so  they  would  not  be  bought. 
Dr,  Cummins  compared  the  pictures  to  cattle  in  the 
parish  pound,  and  it  is  reported  that  the  remark 
caused  much  laughter.  Then  some  one  said — I think 


i66 


THE  ALDERMAN  IN  ART 


it  was  Mr.  Smith — that  the  pictures  had  horrified  him ; 
whereupon  there  was  more  laughter.  Then  a member 
proposed  that  they  should  have  the  pictures  brought 
in,  to  which  proposition  a member  objected,  amid 
much  laughter.  Then  Mr.  Daughan  suggested  that 
the  chairman  and  vice-chairman  should  explain  the 
meaning  of  the  pictures  to  the  council.  More  laughter 
and  more  County  Council  humour.  The  meeting  was 
a typical  meeting,  and  it  furnishes  us  with  the  typical 
councillor. 

In  the  report  of  the  meeting  before  me  a certain 
alderman  seems  to  have  been  as  garrulous  as  he  was 
irrepressible.  He  not  only  spoke  at  greater  length 
than  the  rest  of  the  councillors  put  together,  but  did 
not  hesitate  to  frequently  interrupt  the  members  of  the 
committee  with  remarks.  Speaking  of  pictures  by 
Millais,  Holman  Hunt,  and  Rossetti,  he  said  : — “ We 
have  had  exhibitions,  and  the  works  of  these  great 
artists  were  at  various  times  closely  scrutinised,  and 
they  had  borne  the  most  careful  scrutiny  that  could 
be  directed  to  them.  Now  I defy  you  to  take  a 
number  of  pictures  such  as  those  in  dispute,  and  do 
the  same  with  them.”  No  one  could  have  spoken  the 
words  I have  quoted  who  was  not  absolutely  ignorant 
of  the  art  of  painting.  Imagine  the  poor  alderman 
going  round,  magnifying-glass  in  hand,  subjecting 
Millais  and  Holman  Hunt  to  the  closest  scrutiny. 
And  how  easy  it  is  to  determine  what  was  passing  in 
his  mind  during  the  examination  of  the  Glasgow 
school ! “I  can't  see  where  this  foot  finishes ; the 
painter  was  not  able  to  draw  it,  so  he  covered  it  up 
with  a shadow.  In  the  pictures  of  that  fellow  Guthrie 


THE  ALDERMAN  IN  ART 


167 


the  grass  is  merely  a tint  of  green,  whereas  in  the 
* Shadow  of  the  Cross’  I can  count  all  the  shavings.” 
But  we  will  not  seek  to  penetrate  further  into  this 
very  alderman-like  mind.  He  declared  that  the  Glas- 
gow school  of  painting  was  “ no  more  in  comparison 
to  what  they  recognised  as  a school  of  painting  than 
a charity  school  was  to  the  University  of  Oxford.” 
I am  sorry  our  alderman  did  not  say  what  was  the 
school  of  painting  that  he  and  his  fellow-aldermen 
admired.  In  the  absence  of  any  precise  information 
on  the  point  I will  venture  to  suggest  that  the  school 
they  recognise  is  the  school  of  Bartlett  and  Solomon. 
The  gallery  possesses  two  large  works  by  these 
masters — the  Gondoliers,  and  the  great  picture  of 
Samson,  which  fills  an  entire  end  of  one  room.  But 
what  would  be  of  still  greater  interest  would  be  to  hear 
our  alderman  explain  what  he  meant  by  this  astonish- 
ing sentence: — “The  only  motive  of  Mr.  Hornel’s 
picture  is  a mode  of  art  or  rather  artifice,  in  introduc- 
ing a number  of  colours  with  the  idea  of  making  them 
harmonise ; and  this  could  be  done,  and  had  been 
done,  by  means  of  the  palette-knife.” 

I have  not  the  least  idea  what  this  means,  but  I 
am  none  the  less  interested.  For,  although  void  of 
sense,  the  alderman’s  words  allow  me  to  look  down  a 
long  line  of  illustrious  ancestry — Prud’homme,  Chad- 
band,  Stiggins,  Phillion,  the  apothecary  Homais  in 
“Madame  Bovary.”  After  passing  through  numerous 
transformations,  an  eternal  idea  at  last  incarnates 
itself  in  a final  form.  How  splendid  our  alderman  is ! 
Never  did  a corporation  produce  so  fine  a flower.  He 
is  sententious,  he  is  artistic.  And  how  he  lets  fall  from 


i68 


THE  ALDERMAN  IN  ART 


his  thick  lips  those  scraps  of  art-jargon  which  he 
picked  up  in  the  studio  where  he  sat  for  his  portrait  ! 
He  is  moral ; he  thinks  that  nude  figures  should  not 
be  sanctioned  by  the  corporation ; he  believes  in  the 
Bank,  and  proposes  the  Queen's  health  as  if  he  were 
fulfilling  an  important  duty ; he  goes  to  the  Academy, 
and  dictates  the  aestheticism  of  his  native  town. 
There  he  is,  his  hand  in  his  white  waistcoat,  in  the 
pose  chosen  for  the  presentation  portrait,  at  the 
moment  when  he  delivered  himself  of  his  famous 
apophthegm,  “When  the  nude  comes  into  art,  art 
flies  out  of  the  window." 

The  alderman  is  the  reef  which  for  the  last  five- 
and-twenty  years  has  done  so  much  to  ruin  and  to 
wreck  every  artistic  movement  which  the  enthusiasm 
and  intelligence  of  individuals  have  set  on  foot. 
The  mere  checking  of  the  obstruction  of  the  indi- 
vidual will  not  suffice ; other  aldermen  will  arise — 
equally  ignorant,  equally  talkative,  equally  obstructive. 
And  until  the  race  is  relegated  to  its  proper  function, 
bimetallism  and  sewage,  the  incidents  I have  described 
will  happen  again  and  again. 

A marvellous  accident  that  it  should  have  come  to 
be  believed  that  a corporation  could  edit  a picture 
gallery!  Whence  did  the  belief  originate?  whence 
did  it  spring  ? and  in  what  fancied  substance  of  fact 
did  it  catch  root?  A tapeworm-like  notion — come 
we  know  not  whence,  nor  how.  And  it  has  thriven 
unobserved,  though  signs  of  its  presence  stare  plainly 
enough  in  the  pallid  face  of  the  wretched  gallery. 
Curious  it  is  that  it  should  have  remained  undetected 


THE  ALDERMAN  IN  ART.  169 


so  lbng;  curious,  indeed,  it  is  that  straying  thought 
should  have  led  no  one  to  remember  that  every  great 
art  collection  of  the  world  has  grown  out  of  an  in- 
dividual intelligence.  Collections  have  been  worthily 
continued,  but  each  successive  growth  has  risen  in 
obedience  to  the  will  of  one  supreme  authority ; and 
that  it  should  have  ever  come  to  be  believed  that 
twenty  aldermen,  whose  lives  are  mainly  spent  in 
considering  bank-rates,  bimetallism,  and  sewage,  could 
collect  pictures  of  permanent  value  is  on  the  face  of  it 
as  wild  a folly  as  ever  tried  the  strength  of  the  strait 
waistcoats  of  Hanwell  or  Bedlam.  But  as  Manchester 
and  Liverpool  enjoy  as  fair  a measure  of  sanity  as  the 
rest  of  the  kingdom,  we  perforce  must  admit  the 
theory  of  unconscious  acceptation  of  a chance  idea. 

But  I take  it  that  what  is  essential  in  my  argument 
is  not  to  prove  that  aldermen  know  little  about  art, 
but  that  twenty  men,  wise  or  foolish,  ignorant  or 
learned,  cannot  edit  a picture  gallery.  Proving  the 
obvious  is  not  an  amusing  task,  but  it  is  sometimes  a 
necessary  task.  It  may  be  thought,  too,  that  I might 
be  more  brief ; the  elderly  maxim  about  brevity  being 
the  soul  of  wit  may  be  flung  in  my  teeth.  But  lengthy 
discourse  gives  time  for  reflection,  and  I am  seriously 
anxious  that  my  readers  should  consider  the  question 
which  these  articles  introduce.  I believe  it  to  be  one 
of  vital  interest,  reaching  down  a long  range  of 
consequences ; and  should  these  articles  induce  Man- 
chester and  Liverpool  to  place  their  galleries  in  the 
care  of  competent  art-directors,  I shall  have  rendered 
an  incalculable  service  to  English  art.  I say  “ com- 
petent art-directors,”  and  I mean  by  “ competent  art- 


170 


THE  ALDERMAN  IN  ART 


directors  ” men  who  will  deem  their  mission  to  be  a 
repudiation  of  the  Anglo-French  art  fostered  by  the 
Academy — a return  to  a truer  English  tradition,  and 
the  giving  to  Manchester  and  Liverpool  individual 
artistic  aspiration  and  tendency. 

Is  the  ambition  of  Manchester  and  Liverpool 
limited  to  paltry  imitations  of  the  Chantrey  Fund 
collection?  If  they  desire  no  more,  it  would  serve 
no  purpose  to  disturb  the  corporations  in  their 
management  of  the  galleries.  The  corporations  can 
do  this  better  than  any  director.  But  if  Manchester 
and  Liverpool  desire  individual  artistic  life,  if  they 
wish  to  collect  art  that  will  attract  visitors  and  con- 
tribute to  their  renown,  they  can  only  do  this  by  the 
appointment  of  competent  directors.  For  assurance 
on  this  point  we  have  only  to  think  what  Sir  Frederick 
Burton  has  done  for  the  National  Gallery,  or  what  the 
late  Mr.  Doyle  did  for  Dublin  on  the  meagre  grant  of 
one  thousand  a year.  It  is  the  man  and  not  the 
amount  of  money  spent  that  counts.  A born  collector 
like  the  late  Mr.  Doyle  can  do  more  with  a thousand 
a year  than  a corporation  could  do  with  a hundred 
thousand  a year. 

Nothing  is  of  worth  except  individual  passion; 
it  is  the  one  thing  that  achieves.  And  I know 
of  no  more  intense  passion — and,  I will  add,  no 
more  beautiful  passion — than  the  passion  for  collect- 
ing works  of  art.  Of  all  passions  it  is  the  purest. 
It  matters  little  to  the  man  possessed  of  it  whether 
he  collects  for  the  State  or  for  himself.  The  gallery 
is  his  child,  and  all  his  time  and  energy  are  given 
to  the  enrichment  and  service  of  his  gallery.  The 


THE  ALDERMAN  IN  ART 


171 

gallery  is  his  one  thought.  He  will  lie  awake  at 
night  to  better  think  out  his  plans  for  the  capture  of 
some  treasure  on  which  he  has  set  his  heart.  He  will 
get  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  walk  about  the 
gallery,  considering  some  project  for  improved  arrange- 
ments To  realise  the  meaning  of  the  passion  for 
collecting,  it  is  necessary  to  have  known  a real 
collector,  and  intimately,  for  collectors  do  not  wear 
their  hearts  on  their  sleeve.  With  the  indifferent 
they  are  indifferent ; but  they  are  quick  to  detect  the 
one  man  or  woman  who  sympathises,  who  under- 
stands ; and  they  select  with  eagerness  this  one  from 
the  crowd.  But  perhaps  the  collector  never  really 
reveals  himself  except  to  a fellow-collector,  and  to 
appreciate  the  strength  and  humanity  of  the  passion 
it  is  necessary  to  have  seen  Duret  and  Goncourt 
explaining  a new  Japanesery  which  one  of  them  has 
just  acquired. 

The  partial  love  which  a corporation  may  feel  for 
its  collection  is  very  different  from  the  undivided 
strength  of  the  collector’s  love  of  his  gallery.  And 
even  if  we  were  to  admit  the  possibility  of  an  ideal 
corporation  consisting  of  men  perfectly  conversant 
with  art,  and  animated  with  passion  equal  to  the 
collector’s  passion,  the  history  of  its  labour  would 
still  be  written  in  the  words  “vexatious  discussion 
and  lost  chances.”  The  rule  that  no  picture  is  to 
be  purchased  until  it  has  been  seen  and  approved  of 
by  the  corporation  forbids  all  extraordinary  chances, 
and  the  unique  and  only  moment  is  lost  in  foolish 
formulae.  The  machinery  is  too  cumbersome ; and 
chances  of  sale-rooms  cannot  be  seized ; it  is  instinct 


172 


THE  ALDERMAN  IN  ART 


and  not  reason  that  decides  the  collector,  and  no 
dozen  or  twenty  men  can  ever  be  got  to  immediately 
agree. 

Not  long  after  my  article  on  Manet  was  published 
in  the  columns  of  the  Speaker , a member  of  the 
Manchester  art  committee  wrote  asking  where 
could  the  pictures  be  seen,  and  if  the  owners 
would  lend  them  for  exhibition  in  the  annual 
exhibition  soon  to  open.  If  they  did,  perhaps 
the  corporation  might  be  induced  to  buy  them 
for  the  permanent  collection.  Now  I will  ask  my 
readers  to  imagine  my  bringing  the  pictures  “Le 
Linge  ” and  “ L’Enfant  k FEp£e  ” over  from  France, 
and  submitting  them  to  the  judgment  of  the  Man- 
chester Corporation.  As  well  might  I submit  to 
them  a Velasquez  or  a Gainsborough  signed  Smith 
and  Jones!  It  is  the  authority  of  the  signature  that 
induces  acquiescence  in  the  beauty  of  a portrait  by 
Gainsborough  or  Velasquez;  without  the  signature 
the  ordinary  or  drawing-room  lady  would  prefer  a 
portrait  by  Mr.  Shannon.  Mr.  Shannon  is  the 
fashion,  and  the  fashion,  being  the  essence  and 
soul  of  the  crowd,  is  naturally  popular  with  the 
crowd. 

In  my  article  on  Manet  I referred  to  a beautiful 
picture  of  his — “ Boulogne  Pier.”  It  was  then 
on  exhibition  in  Bond  Street.  I asked  a friend  to 
buy  it.  “ You  will  not  like  the  picture  now,”  I said ; 
“ but  if  you  have  any  latent  aesthetic  feeling  in  you 
it  will  bring  it  out,  and  you  will  like  it  in  six  months’ 
time.”  My  friend  would  not  buy  the  picture,  and 
the  reason  he  gave  was  that  he  did  not  like  it.  It 


THE  ALDERMAN  IN  ART 


*73 


did  not  seem  to  occur  to  him  that  his  taste  might 
advance,  and  that  the  picture  he  was  ignorant  enough 
to  like  to-day  he  might  be  wise  enough  to  loathe 
six  years  hence. 

An  early  customer  of  Sir  John  Millais  said,  “Millais, 
I’ll  give  you  five  hundred  pounds  to  paint  me 
a picture,  and  you  shall  paint  me  the  picture  you 
are  minded  to  paint.”  Sir  John  painted  him  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  pictures  of  modern  times,  “St. 
Agnes’  Eve.”  But  the  wisdom  of  the  purchaser  was 
only  temporary.  When  the  picture  came  home  he 
did  not  like  it,  his  wife  did  not  like  it ; there  was 
no  colour  in  it ; it  was  all  blue  and  green.  Briefly, 
it  was  not  a pleasant  picture  to  live  with ; and  after 
trying  the  experiment  for  a few  months  this  excellent 
gentleman  decided  to  exchange  the  picture  for  a 
picture  by— by  whom? — by  Mr.  Sidney  Cooper.  I 
wonder  what  he  thinks  of  himself  to-day.  And  his 
fate  is  the  fate  of  the  aldermen  who  buy  pictures 
because  they  like  them. 

The  administration  of  art,  as  it  was  pointed  out  in 
the  Manchester  Guardian , is  one  of  extreme  difficulty, 
and  it  is  not  easy  to  find  a competent  director; 
but  it  seems  to  me  to  be  easy  to  name  many  men 
who  would  do  better  in  art-management  than  a 
corporation,  and  embarrassingly  difficult  to  name 
one  who  would  do  worse.  Any  one  man  can 
thread  a needle  better  than  twenty  men.  Should 
the  needle  prove  brittle  and  the  thread  rotten,  the 
threader  must  resign.  Though  a task  may  be 
accomplished  only  by  one  man,  and  though  all 
differ  as  to  how  it  should  be  accomplished,  yet, 


174 


THE  ALDERMAN  IN  ART. 


when  the  task  is  well  accomplished,  an  appreciative 
unanimity  seems  to  prevail  regarding  the  result. 
We  all  agree  in  praising  Sir  Frederick  Burton’s 
administration;  and  yet  how  easy  it  would  be  to 
cavil ! Why  has  he  not  bought  an  Ingres,  a Corot, 
a Courbet,  a Troyon?  Why  has  he  showed  such 
excessive  partiality  for  squint-eyed  Italian  saints  ? 
Sir  Frederick  Burton  would  answer : “ In  col- 
lecting, like  in  everything  else,  you  must  choose 
a line.  I chose  to  consider  the  National  Gallery  as 
a museum.  The  question  is  whether  I have  collected 
well  or  badly  from  this  point  of  view.”  But  a cor- 
poration cannot  choose  a line  on  which  to  collect ; 
it  can  do  no  more  than  indulge  in  miscellaneous 
purchases. 


RELIGIOSITY  IN  ART. 


One  Sunday  morning,  more  than  twenty  years  ago,  I 
breakfasted  with  a great  painter,  who  was  likewise  a 
wit,  and  the  account  he  gave  of  a recent  visit  to  the 
Dore  Gallery  amused  me  very  much.  On  entering, 
he  noticed  that  next  to  the  door  there  was  a high 
desk,  so  cunningly  constructed  both  as  regards  height 
and  inclination  that  all  the  discomforts  of  writing 
were  removed ; and  the  brightness  of  the  silver  ink- 
pot, the  arrangement  of  the  numerous  pens  and  the 
order-book  on  the  desk,  all  was  so  perfect  that  the 
fingers  of  the  lettered  and  unlettered  itched  alike  with 
desire  of  the  caligraphic  art.  By  this  desk  loitered  a 
large  man  of  bland  and  commanding  presence.  He 
wore  a white  waistcoat,  and  a massive  gold  chain,  with 
which  he  toyed  while  watching  the  guileless  spectators 
or  sought  with  soothing  voice  to  entice  one  to  display 
his  handwriting  in  the  order-book.  My  friend,  who 
was  small  and  thin,  almost  succeeded  in  defeating  the 
vigilance  of  the  white-waistcoated  and  honey-voiced 
Cerberus ; but  at  the  last  moment,  as  he  was  about 
to  slip  out,  he  was  stopped,  and  the  following  dia- 
logue ensued : — 

“ Sir,  that  is  a very  great  picture.” 

“Yes,  it  is  indeed,*  it  is  an  immense  picture.” 

“ Sir,  I mean  great  in  every  sense  of  the  word.” 


176 


RELIGIOSITY  IN  ART 


“ So  do  I;  it  is  nearly  as  broad  as  it  is  long.” 

“ I was  alluding,  sir,  to  the  superior  excellence  of 
the  picture,  and  not  to  its  dimensions.,, 

“ Oh!” 

“ May  I ask,  sir,  if  you  know  what  that  picture 
represents  ? ” 

“ I’m  sorry,  but  I can’t  tell  you.” 

“Then,  sir,  I’ll  tell  you.  That  picture  represents 
the  point  of  culmination  in  the  life  of  Christ.” 

“ Really ; may  I ask  who  says  so  ? ” 

“ The  dignitaries  of  the  Church  say  so.” 

Pause,  during  which  my  friend  made  an  ineffectual 
attempt  to  get  past.  The  waistcoat,  however,  barred 
the  way,  and  then  the  bland  and  dulcet  voice  spoke 
again. 

“ Do  you  see  that  man  copying  the  right-hand  corner 
of  the  picture?  That  gentleman  says  that  the  man 
who  could  paint  that  corner  could  paint  anything.” 

“ Oh ! and  who  is  that  gentleman  ? ” 

“ That  gentleman  is  employed  to  copy  in  the 
National  Gallery.” 

“ Oh  ! by  the  State  ? ” 

“ No,  sir,  not  by  the  State,  but  he  has  permission 
to  copy  in  the  National  Gallery.” 

“A  special  permission  granted  to  him  by  the 
State?” 

“ No,  sir,  but  he  has  permission  to  copy  in  the 
National  Gallery.” 

“ In  fact,  just  as  every  one  else  has.  I am  really 
very  much  obliged,  but  I must  be  getting  along.” 

“ Sir,  won’t  you  put  down  your  name  for  a ten- 
guinea  proof  signed  by  the  artist  ? ” 


RELIGIOSITY  IN  ART . 


177 


“ Fm  very  sorry,  but  I really  do  not  see  my  way 
to  taking  a ten-guinea  subscription.” 

“ Then,  perhaps,  you  will  take  one  at  five — the 
same  without  the  signature  ? ” 

“ I really  cannot.” 

“ You  can  have  a numbered  proof  for  ^2,  10s.” 

“ No,  thank  you;  you  must  excuse  me.” 

“ You  can  have  an  ordinary  proof  for  a guinea.” 

“ No,  thank  you ; you  must  really  allow  me  to 
pass.” 

Then  in  the  last  moment  the  white  waistcoat, 
assuming  a tone  in  which  there  was  both  despair  and 
disdain,  said — 

“ But  you  will  have  a year  and  a half  before  you 
need  pay  your  guinea.” 

Who  does  not  know  this  man  ? who  has  not  suffered 
from  his  importunities  ? Twenty  years  ago  he  extolled 
the  beauties  of  “ Christ  leaving  the  Praetorium  ” ; ten 
years  later  he  lauded  the  merits  of  “ Christ  and 
Diana  ” ; to-day  he  is  busy  advising  the  shilling  pub- 
lic thronging  the  Dowdeswell  galleries  to  view  Mr. 
Herbert  Schmalz’s  impressive  picture  of  “ The  Return 
from  Calvary.”  I do  not  mean  that  the  same  gentle- 
man who  presided  at  the  desk  in  the  Dore  Gallery 
now  presides  at  the  desk  at  160  New  Bond  Street. 
The  individual  differs,  but  the  type  remains  unaltered. 
The  waistcoat,  the  desk,  the  pens  and  the  silver  ink- 
stand,  such  paraphernalia  are  as  inseparable  from  him 
as  the  hammer  is  from  the  auctioneer.  All  this  I 
have  on  the  authority  of  Messrs.  Dowdeswell  them- 
selves. When  engaging  their  canvasser,  they  offered 
him  a small  table  at  the  end  of  the  room.  Their 


12 


RELIGIOSITY  IN  ART 


178 

ignorance  of  his  art  caused  him  to  smile.  “ A table,” 
he  said,  “ would  necessitate  sitting  down  to  write,  and 
the  great  point  in  this  business  is  to  save  the  cus- 
tomer from  all  unnecessary  trouble.  Any  other  place 
in  the  room  except  next  the  door  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. I must  have  a nice  desk  there,  at  which  you 
can  write  standing  up,  a lamp  shedding  a bright  glow 
upon  the  paper,  a handsome  silver  inkstand,  and  a 
long,  evenly-balanced  pen.  Give  me  these  things, 
and  leave  the  rest  to  me.” 

Messrs.  Dowdeswell  hastened  to  comply  with  these 
requests.  I was  in  the  gallery  on  Monday,  and  can 
testify  to  the  pleasantness  of  the  little  installation,  to 
the  dexterity  with  which  customers  were  led  there, 
and  to  the  grace  with  which  the  canvasser  dipped  the 
pen  in  the  handsome  silver  inkstand.  The  county 
squire,  the  owner  of  racehorses,  the  undergraduate, 
and  the  Brixton  spinster,  are  easily  led  by  him  to  the 
commodious  desk.  Go  and  see  the  man,  and  you 
will  be  led  thither  likewise. 

It  is  a matter  for  wonder  that  more  artists  do  not 
devote  themselves  to  painting  religious  subjects. 
There  seems  to  be  an  almost  limitless  demand  for 
work  of  this  kind,  and  almost  any  amount  of  praise 
for  it,  no  matter  how  badly  it  is  executed.  The 
critic  dares  not  turn  the  picture  into  ridicule  however 
bad  it  may  be,  for  to  do  so  would  seem  like  turning 
a sacred  subject  into  ridicule — so  few  distinguish 
between  the  subject  and  the  picture.  He  may 
hardly  venture  to  depreciate  the  work,  for  it  would 
not  seem  quite  right  to  depreciate  the  work  of  a man 
who  had  endeavoured  to  depict,  however  inade- 


RELIGIOSITY  IN  ART 


179 


quately,  a sacred  subject.  Everything  is  in  favour  of 
the  painter  of  religious  subjects,  provided  certain 
formalities  are  observed.  The  canvasser  and  the 
arrangements  of  the  desk  are  of  course  the  first 
consideration,  but  there  are  a number  of  minor 
observances,  not  one  of  which  may  be  neglected. 
The  gallery  must  be  thrown  into  deep  twilight  with  a 
vivid  light  from  above  falling  full  on  the  picture. 
There  must  be  lines  of  chairs,  arranged  as  if  for  a 
devout  congregation;  and  if,  in  excess  of  these,  the 
primary  conditions  of  success,  one  of  the  dignitaries 
of  the  Church  can  be  induced  to  accept  a little 
excursion  into  the  perilous  fields  of  art  criticism,  all 
will  go  well  with  the  show. 

It  would  be  unseemly  for  a critic  to  argue  with 
a bishop  concerning  the  merits  of  a religious 
picture — it  would  be  irreverent,  anomalous,  and  in 
execrable  taste.  For  it  must  be  clear  to  every  one 
that  the  best  and  truest  critic  of  a religious  picture 
is  a bishop;  and  it  is  still  more  clear  that  if  the 
picture  contains  a view  of  Jerusalem,  the  one 
person  who  can  speak  authoritatively  on  the 
matter  is  the  Bishop  of  Jerusalem.  And  it  were 
indeed  impossible  to  realise  the  essential  nature  of 
these  truths  better  than  Messrs.  Dowdeswell  have 
done ; they  have  even  ventured  to  extend  the 
ordinary  programme,  and  have  decreed  a special 
7natinee  in  the  interests  of  country  parsons — truly  an 
idea  of  genius.  If  a fault  may  be  found  or  forged 
with  the  arrangements,  it  is  that  they  did  not  enter 
into  some  contract  with  the  railway  authorities.  But 
this  is  hypercriticism ; they  have  done  their  work 


i8o  RELIGIOSITY  IN  ART 

well,  and  the  7natinee , as  the  order-book  will  testify, 
was  a splendid  success.  The  parsons  came  up  from 
every  part  of  the  country,  and  as  “ The  Return  from 
Calvary  ” is  the  latest  thing  in  religious  art,  they  think 
themselves  bound  to  put  their  names  down  for  proofs. 
How  could  they  refuse  ? The  canvasser  dipped  the 
pen  in  the  ink  for  them,  and  he  has  a knack  of 
making  a refusal  seem  so  mean. 

About  Mr.  Schmalz’s  picture  I have  really  no  par- 
ticular opinion.  I do  not  think  it  worse  than  any 
picture  of  the  same  kind  by  the  late  Mr.  Long.  Nor 
do  I think  that  it  can  be  said  to  be  very  much 
inferior  to  the  religious  works  with  which  Mr.  Goodali 
has  achieved  so  wide  a reputation.  On  the  whole  I 
think  I prefer  Mr.  Goodali,  though  I am  not  certain. 
Here  is  the  picture : — At  the  top  of  a flight  of  steps 
and  about  two-thirds  of  the  way  across  the  picture, 
to  the  left,  so  as  not  to  interfere  with  the  view  of 
Jerusalem,  are  three  figures — as  Sir  Augustus  Harris 
might  have  set  them  were  he  attempting  a theatrical 
representation  of  the  scene.  There  is  a dark  man, 
this  is  St.  John,  and  over  him  a woman  draped  in 
white  is  weeping,  and  behind  her  a woman  with 
golden  hair — the  Magdalen — is  likewise  weeping. 
Two  other  figures  are  ascending  the  steps,  but  as 
they  are  low  down  in  the  picture  they  interfere  hardly 
at  all  with  the  splendid  view.  The  dark  sky  is 
streaked  with  Naples  yellow,  and  the  pale  colour 
serves  to  render  distinct  the  three  crosses  planted 
upon  Calvary  in  the  extreme  distance. 

In  this  world  all  is  a question  of  temperament. 
To  the  aesthetic  temperament  Mr.  Schmalz’s  picture 


RELIGIOSITY  IN  ART 


181 


will  seem  hardly  more  beautiful  or  attractive  than  a 
Salvationist  hymn-book;  the  unassthetic  temperament 
will,  on  the  other  hand,  be  profoundly  moved,  the 
subject  stands  out  clear  and  distinct,  and  that  class 
of  mind,  overlooking  all  artistic  shortcomings,  will 
lose  itself  in  emotional  consideration  of  the  grandest 
of  all  the  world’s  tragedies.  That  Mr.  Schmalz’s 
picture  is  capable  of  exercising  a profound  effect  on 
the  uneducated  mind  there  can  be  no  doubt.  While 
I was  there  a lady  walked  with  stately  tread  into  the 
next  room,  and  seeing  there  nothing  more  exciting 
than  rural  scenes  drawn  in  water-colour,  exclaimed, 
“ Trees,  mere  trees ! what  are  trees  after  having  had 
one’s  soul  elevated  ? ” 

That  great  artist  Henri  Monnier  devoted  a long  life 
to  the  study  and  the  collection  of  the  finest  examples 
of  human  stupidity,  and  marvellous  as  are  some  of 
the  specimens  preserved  by  him  in  his  dialogues,  I 
hardly  think  that  he  succeeded  in  discovering  a 
finer  gem  than  the  phrase  overheard  by  me  in 
the  Dowdeswell  Galleries.  To  appreciate  the  sub- 
lime height,  must  we  not  know  something  of  the 
miserable  depth  ? And  the  study  of  human  stupidity 
is  refreshing  and  salutary ; it  helps  us  to  understand 
ourselves,  to  estimate  ourselves,  and  to  force  our- 
selves to  look  below  the  surface,  and  so  raise  our 
ideas  out  of  that  mire  of  casual  thought  in  which  we 
are  all  too  prone  to  lie.  For  perfect  culture,  the  lady 
I met  at  the  Dowdeswell  Galleries  is  as  necessary  as 
Shakespeare.  Is  she  not  equally  an  exhortation  to 
be  wise? 


THE  CAMERA  IN  ART. 


It  is  certain  that  the  introduction  of  Japaneseries 
into  this  country  has  permanently  increased  our 
sense  of  colour;  is  it  therefore  improbable  that  the 
invention  of  photography  has  modified,  if  it  has  not 
occasioned  any  very  definite  alteration  in  our  general 
perception  of  the  external  world?  It  would  be 
interesting  to  inquire  into  such  recondite  and  illusive 
phenomena ; and  I am  surprised  that  no  paper  on 
so  interesting  a question  has  appeared  in  any  of  our 
art  journals.  True,  so  many  papers  are  printed  in 
our  weekly  and  monthly  press  that  it  is  impossible 
for  any  one  to  know  all  that  has  been  written  on  any 
one  subject ; but,  so  far  as  I am  aware,  no  such  paper 
has  appeared,  and  the  absence  of  such  a paper  is,  I 
think,  a serious  deficiency  in  our  critical  literature. 

It  is,  however,  no  part  of  my  present  purpose  to 
attempt  to  supply  this  want.  I pass  on  to  con- 
sider rapidly  a matter  less  abstruse  and  of  more 
practical  interest,  a growing  habit  among  artists  to 
avail  themselves  of  the  assistance  of  photographs  in 
their  work.  It  will  not  be  questioned  that  many 
artists  of  repute  do  use  photographs  to — well,  to 
put  it  briefly,  to  save  themselves  trouble,  expense, 
and,  in  some  cases,  to  supplant  defective  education. 
But  the  influence  of  photography  on  art  is  so  vast 


THE  CAMERA  IN  ART . 183 

a subject,  so  multiple,  so  intricate,  that  I may  do 
no  more  here  than  lift  the  very  outer  fringe. 

It  is,  however,  clear  to  almost  everybody  who  has 
thought  about  art  at  all,  that  the  ever-changing 
colour  and  form  of  clouds,  the  complex  variety 
(definite  in  its  very  indefiniteness)  of  every  populous 
street,  the  evanescent  delicacy  of  line  and  aerial 
effect  that  the  most  common  and  prosaic  suburb 
presents  in  certain  lights,  are  the  very  enchantment 
and  despair  of  the  artist ; and  likewise  every  one 
who  has  for  any  short  while  reflected  seriously  on 
the  problem  of  artistic  work  must  know  that  the 
success  of  every  evocative  rendering  of  the  exquisite 
externality  of  crowded  or  empty  street,  of  tumult  or 
calm  in  cloud-land,  is  the  fruit  of  daily  and  hourly 
observation — observation  filtered  through  years  of 
thought,  and  then  fortified  again  in  observation  of 
Nature. 

But  such  observation  is  the  labour  of  a life ; 
and  he  who  undertakes  it  must  be  prepared  to 
see  his  skin  brown  and  blister  in  the  shine,  and 
feel  his  flesh  pain  him  with  icy  chills  in  the  biting 
north  wind.  The  great  landscape  painters  suffered 
for  the  intolerable  desire  of  Art;  they  were  content 
to  forego  the  life  of  drawing-rooms  and  clubs,  and 
live  solitary  lives  in  unceasing  communion  with  Art 
and  Nature.  But  artists  in  these  days  are  afraid  of 
catching  cold,  and  impatient  of  long  and  protracted 
studentship.  Everything  must  be  made  easy,  com- 
fortable, and  expeditious ; and  so  it  comes  to  pass 
that  many  an  artist  seeks  assistance  from  the  camera. 
A moment,  and  it  is  done  : no  wet  feet ; no  tiresome 


184 


THE  CAMERA  IN  ART 


sojourn  in  the  country  when  town  is  full  of  merry 
festivities ; and,  above  all,  hardly  any  failure — that 
is  to  say,  no  failure  that  the  ordinary  public  can 
detect,  nor,  indeed,  any  failure  that  the  artist’s 
conscience  will  not  get  used  to  in  time. 

Mr.  Gregory  is  the  most  celebrated  artist  who  is 
said  to  make  habitual  use  of  photography.  Mr. 
Gregory  has  no  warmer  admirer  than  myself.  His 
picture  of  “ Dawn  ” is  the  most  fairly  famous  picture 
of  our  time.  But  since  that  picture  his  art  has 
declined.  It  has  lost  all  the  noble  synthetical  life 
which  comes  of  long  observation  and  gradual  assimi- 
lation of  Nature.  His  picture  of  a yachtsman  in  this 
year’s  Academy  was  as  paltry,  as  " realistic  ” as  may 
be. 

Professor  Herkomer  is  another  well-known  artist 
who  is  said  to  use  photography.  It  is  even  said 
that  he  has  his  sitter  photographed  on  to  the 
canvas,  and  the  photographic  foundation  he  then 
covers  up  with  those  dreadful  browns  and  ochres 
which  seem  to  constitute  his  palette.  Report 
credits  him  with  this  method,  which  it  is  possible 
he  believes  to  be  an  advance  on  the  laborious 
process  of  drawing  from  Nature,  to  which,  in  the 
absence  of  the  ingenious  instrument,  the  Old  Masters 
were  perforce  obliged  to  resort.  It  will  be  said 
that  what  matter  how  the  artists  work — that  it 
is  with  the  result,  not  the  method,  with  which  we 
are  concerned.  Dismissing  report  from  our  ears, 
surely  we  must  recognise  all  the  cheap  realism  of 
the  camera  in  Professor  Herkomer’s  portraits;  and 
this  is  certainly  their  characteristic,  although  photo- 


THE  CAMERA  IN  ART.  185 

graphy  may  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  their 
manufacture. 

Mr.  Bartlett  is  another  artist  who,  it  is  said,  makes 
habitual  use  of  photographs ; and  surely  in  some  of 
his  boys  bathing  the  photographic  effects  are  visible 
enough.  But  although  very  far  from  possessing  the 
accomplishments  of  Mr.  Gregory,  Mr.  Bartlett  has 
acquired  some  education,  and  can  draw,  when 
occasion  requires,  very  well  indeed  from  life. 

Mr.  Mortimer  Menpes  is  the  third  artist  of  any 
notoriety  that  rumour  has  declared  to  be  a disciple  of 
the  camera.  His  case  is  the  most  flagrant,  for  it  is  said 
that  he  rarely,  if  ever,  draws  from  Nature,  and  that 
his  entire  work  is  done  from  photographs.  Be  this  as 
it  may,  his  friends  have  stated  a hundred  times  in  the 
Press  that  he  uses  photography,  and  it  would  seem 
that  his  work  shows  the  mechanical  aid  more  and 
more  every  day.  Some  years  ago  he  went  to  Japan, 
and  brought  home  a number  of  pictures  which  suited 
drawing-rooms,  and  were  soon  sold.  I did  not  see 
the  exhibition,  but  I saw  some  pictures  done  by 
him  at  that  time — one,  an  especially  good  one,  I 
happened  upon  in  the  Grosvenor  Gallery.  This 
picture,  although  superficial  and  betraying  when  you 
looked  into  it  a radical  want  of  knowledge,  was  not 
lacking  in  charm.  In  French  studios  there  is  a slang 
phrase  which  expresses  the  meretricious  charm  of  this 
picture — <?est  du  chic ; and  the  meaning  of  this  very 
expressive  term  is  ignorance  affecting  airs  of  capacity. 
Now  the  whole  of  Mr.  Menpes’  picture  was  comprised 
in  this  term.  The  manner  of  the  master  who,  certain 
of  the  shape  and  value  of  the  shadow  under  an  eye, 


THE  CAMERA  IN  ART 


1 86 

will  let  his  hand  run,  was  reproduced ; but  the  exact 
shape  and  value  of  the  shadows  were  not  to  be 
gathered  from  the  photograph,  and  the  result  was 
a charming  but  a hollow  mockery. 

And  then  the  “ colour-notes  ” ; with  what  assur- 
ance they  were  dashed  into  the  little  pictures  from 
Japan,  and  how  dexterously  the  touch  of  the  master 
who  knows  exactly  what  he  wants  was  parodied ! 
At  the  first  glance  you  were  deceived ; at  the 
second  you  saw  that  it  was  only  such  cursive  taste 
and  knowledge  as  a skilful  photographer  who  had 
been  allowed  the  run  of  a painter’s  studio  for  a 
few  months  might  display.  Nowhere  was  there  any 
definite  intention;  it  was  something  that  had  been 
well  committed  to  memory,  that  had  been  well 
remembered,  but  only  half-understood.  Everything 
floated — drawing,  values,  colours — for  there  was  not 
sufficient  knowledge  to  hold  and  determine  the  place 
of  any  one. 

Since  those  days  Mr.  Menpes  has  continued  to 
draw  from  photographs,  and  — the  base  of  his 
artistic  education  being  deficient  from  the  first — 
the  result  of  his  long  abstention  from  Nature  is 
apparent,  even  to  the  least  critical,  in  the  some 
hundred  and  seventy  paintings,  etchings,  and  what 
he  calls  diamond-points  on  ivory,  on  exhibition  at 
Messrs.  Dowdeswell’s.  Diamond-points  on  ivory  may 
astonish  the  unthinking  public,  but  artists  are  inter- 
ested in  the  drawing,  and  not  what  the  drawing  is  done 
upon.  Besides  the  diamond-points,  there  is  quite 
sufficient  matter  in  this  exhibition  to  astonish  visitors 
from  Peckham,  Pentonville,  Islington,  and  perhaps 


THE  CAMERA  IN  ART 


187 


Clapham,  but  not  Bayswater — no,  not  Bayswater. 
There  are  frames  in  every  sort  of  pattern — some  are 
even  adorned  with  gold  tassels — and  the  walls  have 
been  especially  prepared  to  receive  them. 

These  pictures  and  etchings  purport  to  be  repre- 
sentations of  India,  Burma,  and  Cashmire.  The 
diamond-points,  I believe,  purport  to  be  diamond- 
points.  In  some  of  the  etchings  there  is  the 
same  ingenious  touch  of  hand,  but  anything  more 
woful  than  the  oil  pictures  cannot  easily  be 
imagined.  In  truth,  they  do  not  call  for  any 
serious  criticism ; and  were  it  not  for  the  fact 
that  they  afforded  an  opportunity  of  making  some 
remarks — which  seemed  to  me  to  be  worth  making — 
about  the  influence  of  photography  in  modern  art, 
I should  have  left  the  public  to  find  for  itself  the 
value  of  this  attempt,  in  the  grandiloquent  words  of 
the  catalogue,  “ to  bring  before  my  countrymen  the 
aesthetic  and  artistic  capabilities,  and  the  beauty  in 
various  forms,  that  are  to  be  found  in  our  great 
Indian  Empire.”  To  criticise  the  pictures  in  detail  is 
impossible;  but  I will  try  to  give  an  impression  of 
the  exhibition  as  a whole.  Imagine  a room  hung 
with  ordinary  school  slates,  imagine  that  all  these 
slates  have  been  gilt,  and  that  some  have  been 
adorned  with  gold  tassels  instead  of  the  usual  sponge, 
and  into  each  let  there  be  introduced  a dome,  a 
camel,  a palm-tree,  or  any  other  conventional  sign  of 
the  East. 

On  examining  the  paintings  thus  sumptuously 
encased  you  will  notice  that  the  painter  has  not 
been  able  to  affect  with  the  brush  any  slight  air  of 


i88 


THE  CAMERA  IN  ART. 


capacity;  the  material  betrays  him  at  every  point 
The  etchings  are  du  chic ; but  the  paintings  are 
merely  abortive.  The  handling  consists  in  scrubbing 
the  colour  into  the  canvas,  attaining  in  this  manner  a 
texture  which  sometimes  reminds  you  of  wool,  some- 
times of  sand,  sometimes  of  both.  The  poor  little 
bits  of  blue  sky  stick  to  the  houses ; there  is  nowhere 
a breath  of  air,  a ray  of  light,  not  even  a convention- 
ally graduated  sky  or  distance ; there  is  not  an  angle, 
or  a pillar,  or  a stairway  finely  observed ; there  is  not 
even  any  such  eagerness  in  the  delineation  of  an 
object  as  would  show  that  the  painter  felt  interest  in 
his  work;  every  sketch  tells  the  tale  of  a burden 
taken  up  and  thankfully  relinquished.  Here  we  have 
white  wall,  but  it  has  neither  depth  nor  consistency; 
behind  it  a bit  of  sandy  sky ; the  ground  is  yellow, 
and  there  is  a violet  shadow  upon  it.  But  the  colour 
of  the  ground  does  not  show  through  the  shadow. 
Look,  for  example,  at  No.  36.  Is  it  possible  to 
believe  that  that  red-brick  sky  was  painted  from 
Nature,  or  that  unhappy  palm  in  a picture  close  by 
was  copied  as  it  raised  its  head  over  that  wall  ? The 
real  scene  would  have  stirred  an  emotion  in  the  heart 
of  the  dullest  member  of  the  Stock  Exchange,  and, 
however  unskilful  the  brushwork,  if  the  man  could 
hold  a brush  at  all,  there  would  have  been  something 
to  show  that  the  man  had  been  in  the  presence  of 
Nature.  There  is  no  art  so  indiscreet  as  painting, 
and  the  story  of  the  painter’s  mind  may  be  read  in 
every  picture. 

But  another  word  regarding  these  pictures  would 
be  waste  of  space  and  time.  Let  Mr.  Menpes  put 


THE  CAMERA  IN  ART  189 

away  his  camera,  let  him  go  out  into  the  streets  or  the 
fields,  and  there  let  him  lose  himself  in  the  vastness 
and  beauty  of  Nature.  Let  him  study  humbly  the 
hang  of  a branch  or  the  surface  of  a wall,  striving  to 
give  to  each  their  character.  Let  him  try  to  render 
the  mystery  of  a perspective  in  the  blue  evening  or 
its  harshness  and  violence  in  the  early  dawn.  There 
is  no  need  to  go  to  Burma,  there  is  mystery  and 
poetry  wherever  there  is  atmosphere.  In  certain 
moments  a backyard,  with  its  pump  and  a child 
leaning  to  drink,  will  furnish  sufficient  motive  for 
an  exquisite  picture ; the  atmosphere  of  the  evening 
hour  will  endow  it  with  melancholy  and  tenderness. 
But  the  insinuating  poetry  of  chiaroscuro  the  camera 
is  powerless  to  reproduce,  and  it  cannot  be  imagined; 
Nature  is  parsimonious  of  this  her  greatest  gift, 
surrendering  it  slowly,  and  only  to  those  who  love 
her  best,  and  whose  hearts  are  pure  of  mercenary 
thought. 


THE  NEW  ENGLISH  ART  CLUB. 


This,  the  ninth  season  of  the  New  English  Art  Club, 
has  been  marked  by  a decisive  step.  The  club  has 
rejected  two  portraits  of  Mr.  Shannon.  So  that  the 
public  may  understand  and  appreciate  the  importance 
of  this  step,  I will  sketch,  d,  coups  de  crayon  peu 
fondus , the  portrait  of  a lady  as  I imagine  Mr. 
Shannon  might  have  painted  her.  A woman  of 
thirty,  an  oval  face,  and  a long  white  brow;  pale 
brown  hair,  tastefully  arranged  with  flowers  and  a 
small  plume.  The  eyes  large  and  tender,  expressive 
of  a soul  that  yearns  and  has  been  misunderstood. 
The  nose  straight,  the  nostrils  well-defined,  slightly 
dilated;  the  mouth  curled,  and  very  red.  The 
shoulders  large,  white,  and  over-modelled,  with  cream 
tints ; the  arms  soft  and  rounded ; diamond  bracelets 
on  the  wrists;  diamonds  on  the  emotional  neck. 
Her  dress  is  of  the  finest  duchesse  satin,  and  it  falls 
* in  heavy  folds.  She  holds  a bouquet  in  her  hands ; 
a pale  green  garden  is  behind  her ; swans  are  moving 
gracefully  through  shadowy  water,  whereon  the  moon 
shines  peacefully.  Add  to  this  conception  the  marvel- 
lous square  brushwork  of  the  French  studio,  and  you 
have  the  man  born  to  paint  English  duchesses — to 
paint  them  as  they  see  themselves,  as  they  would  be 


THE  NEW  ENGLISH  ART  CLUB . 191 


seen  by  posterity ; and  through  Mr.  Shannon  our 
duchesses  realise  all  their  aspirations,  present  and 
posthumous.  The  popularity  of  these  pictures  is 
undoubted ; wherever  they  hang,  and  they  hang 
everywhere,  except  in  the  New  English  Art  Club, 
couples  linger.  “ How  charming,  how  beautifully 
dressed,  how  refined  she  looks ! ” and  the  wife  who 
has  not  married  a man  a la  hauteur  de  ses  sentiments 
casts  on  him  a withering  glance,  which  says,  “ Why 
can't  you  afford  to  let  me  be  painted  by  Mr. 
Shannon  ? ” 

We  are  here  to  realise  our  ideals,  and  far  is  it  from 
my  desire  to  thwart  any  lady  in  her  aspirations,  be 
they  in  white  or  violet  satin,  with  or  without  green 
gardens.  If  I were  on  the  hanging  committee  of  the 
Royal  Academy,  all  the  duchesses  in  the  kingdom 
should  be  realised,  and  then — I would  create  more 
duchesses,  and  they,  too,  should  be  realised  by 
Messrs.  Shannon,  Hacker,  and  Solomon  les  chefs  de 
rayon  de  la  peinture . And  when  these  painters 
arrived,  each  with  a van  filled  with  new  satin 
duchesses,  I would  say,  “ Go  to  Mr.  Agnew,  ask  him 
what  space  he  requires,  and  anything  over  and  above 
they  shall  have  it."  I would  convert  the  Chantrey 
Fund  into  white  satin  duchesses,  and  build  a museum 
opposite  Mr.  Tate’s  for  the  blue.  I would  do  any-  * 
thing  for  these  painters  and  their  duchesses  except 
hang  them  in  the  New  English  Art  Club. 

For  it  is  entirely  necessary  that  the  public  should 
never  be  left  for  a moment  in  doubt  as  to  the 
intention  of  this  club.  It  is  open  to  those  who  paint 
for  the  joy  of  painting ; and  it  is  entirely  disassociated 


i92  THE  NEW  ENGLISH  ART  CLUB . 


from  all  commercialism.  Muslin  ballet-girl  or  satin 
duchess  it  matters  no  jot,  nothing  counts  with  the 
jury  but  V idee  plastique : comradeship,  money  gain  or 
loss,  are  waived.  The  rejection  of  Mr.  Shannon’s 
portraits  will  probably  cost  the  club  four  guineas  a 
year,  the  amount  of  his  subscription,  and  it  will 
certainly  lose  to  the  club  the  visits  of  his  numerous 
drawing-room  following.  This  is  to  be  regretted — in 
a way.  The  club  must  pay  its  expenses,  but  it  were 
better  that  the  club  should  cease  than  that  its  guiding 
principle  should  be  infringed. 

Either  we  may  or  we  may  not  have  a gallery 
from  which  popular  painting  is  excluded.  I think 
that  we  should;  but  I know  that  Academicians 
and  dealers  are  in  favour  of  enforced  prostitution 
in  art.  That  men  should  practise  painting  for 
the  mere  love  of  paint  is  wholly  repugnant  to  every 
healthy-minded  Philistine.  The  critic  of  the  Daily 
Telegraph  described  the  pictures  in  the  present 
exhibition  as  things  that  no  one  would  wish  to 
possess;  he  then  pointed  out  that  a great  many 
were  excellently  well  painted.  Quite  so.  I have 
always  maintained  that  there  is  nothing  that  the 
average  Englishman — the  reader  of  the  Daily  Tele- 
graph— dislikes  so  much  as  good  painting.  He 
regards  it  in  the  light  of  an  offence,  and  what  makes 
it  peculiarly  irritating  in  his  eyes  is  the  difficulty  of 
declaring  it  to  be  an  immoral  action ; he  instinctively 
feels  that  it  is  immoral,  but  somehow  the  crime 
seems  to  elude  definition. 

The  Independent  Theatre  was  another  humble 
endeavour  which  sorely  tried  the  conscience  of  the 


THE  NEW  ENGLISH  ART  CLUB . 193 


average  Englishman.  That  any  one  should  wish 
to  write  plays  that  were  not  intended  to  please 
the  public — that  did  not  pay — was  an  unheard-of 
desire,  morbid  and  unwholesome  as  could  well  be, 
and  meriting  the  severest  rebuke.  But  the  Indepen- 
dent Theatre  has  somehow  managed  to  struggle  into 
a third  year  of  life,  and  the  New  English  Art  Club 
has  opened  its  ninth  exhibition;  so  I suppose  that 
the  Daily  Telegraph  will  have  to  make  up  its  mind, 
sorrowfully,  of  course,  and  with  regret,  that  there  are 
folk  still  in  London  who  are  not  always  ready  to  sell 
their  talents  to  the  highest  bidder. 

For  painters  and  those  who  like  painting,  the 
exhibitions  at  the  New  English  Art  Club  are  the 
most  interesting  in  London.  We  find  there  no 
anecdotes,  sentimental,  religious,  or  historical,  nor 
the  conventional  measuring  and  modelling  which  the 
Academy  delights  to  honour  in  the  name  of  Art.  At 
the  New  English  Art  Club,  from  the  first  picture  to 
the  last,  we  find  artistic  effort;  very  often  the  effort 
is  feeble,  but  nowhere,  try  as  persistently  as  you 
please,  will  you  find  the  loud  stupidity  of  ordinary 
exhibitions  of  contemporary  painting.  This  is  a plain 
statement  of  a plain  truth — plain  to  artists  and  those 
few  who  possess  the  slightest  knowledge  of  the  art  of 
painting,  or  even  any  faint  love  of  it.  But  to  the 
uncultivated,  to  the  ignorant,  and  to  the  stupid  the 
New  English  Art  Club  is  the  very  place  where  all  the 
absurd  and  abortive  attempts  done  in  painting  in  the 
course  of  the  year  are  exposed  on  view.  If  I wished 
to  test  a man’s  taste  and  knowledge  in  the  art  of 
painting  I would  take  him  to  the  English  Art  Club 

T3 


i94  THE  NE  W ENGLISH  ART  CL  UB . 


and  listen  for  one  or  two  minutes  to  what  he  had  got 
to  say. 

Immediately  on  entering  the  room,  before  we  see 
the  pictures,  we  know  that  they  are  good.  For  a 
pleasant  soft  colour,  delicate  and  insinuating  as  an 
odour  of  flowers,  pervades  the  room.  So  we  are  glad  to 
loiter  in  this  vague  sensation  of  delicate  colour,  and  we 
talk  to  our  friends,  avoiding  the  pictures,  until  gradu- 
ally a pale-faced  woman  with  arched  eyebrows  draws 
our  eyes  and  fixes  our  thoughts.  It  is  a portrait  by 
Mr.  Sargent,  one  of  the  best  he  has  painted.  By  the 
side  of  a fine  Hals  it  might  look  small  and  thin, 
but  nothing  short  of  a fine  Hals  would  affect 
its  real  beauty.  My  admiration  for  Mr.  Sargent  has 
often  hesitated,  but  this  picture  completely  wins 
me.  It  has  all  the  qualities  of  Mr.  Sargent's  best 
work ; and  it  has  something  more : it  is  painted 
with  that  measure  of  calculation  and  reserve  which 
is  present  in  all  work  of  the  first  order  of  merit. 
I find  the  picture  described  with  sufficient  succinct- 
ness in  my  notes  : “ A half-length  portrait  of  a woman, 
in  a dress  of  shot-silk — a sort  of  red  violet,  the  colour 
known  as  puce.  The  face  is  pale,  the  chin  is  pro- 
minent and  pointed.  There  were  some  Japanese 
characteristics  in  the  model,  and  these  have  been 
selected.  The  eyes  are  long,  and  their  look  is  aslant; 
the  eyebrows  are  high  and  marked;  the  dark  hair 
grows  round  the  pale  forehead  with  wig-like  abrupt- 
ness, and  the  painter  has  attempted  no  attenuation. 
The  carnations  are  wanting  in  depth  of  colour — they 
are  somewhat  chalky ; but  what  I admire  so  much  is 
the  exquisite  selection,  besides  the  points  mentioned 


THE  HEW  ENGLISH  ART  CLUB . 195 


— the  shadowed  outline,  so  full  of  the  form  of  her 
face,  and  the  markings  about  the  eyes,  so  like  her ; 
and  the  rendering  is  full  of  the  beauty  of  incompar- 
able skill.  The  neck,  how  well  placed  beneath  the 
pointed  chin ! How  exact  in  width,  in  length,  and 
how  it  corresponds  with  the  ear ; and  the  jawbone  is 
under  the  skin ; and  the  anatomies  are  all  explicit — 
the  collar-bone,  the  hollow  of  the  arm-pit,  and  the 
muscle  of  the  arm,  the  placing  of  the  bosom,  its 
shape,  its  size,  its  weight.  Mr.  Sargent’s  drawing 
speaks  without  hesitation,  a beautiful,  decisive  elo- 
quence, the  meaning  never  in  excess  of  the  expres- 
sion, nor  is  the  expression  ever  redundant.” 

I said  that  we  find  in  this  portrait  reserve  not 
frequently  to  be  met  with  in  Mr.  Sargent’s  work. 
What  I first  noticed  in  the  picture  was  the  admirable 
treatment  of  the  hands.  They  are  upon  her  hips,  the 
palms  turned  out,  and  so  reduced  is  the  tone  that  they 
are  hardly  distinguishable  from  the  dress.  As  the 
model  sat  the  light  must  have  often  fallen  on  her 
hands,  and  five  years  ago  Mr.  Sargent  might  have 
painted  them  in  the  light.  But  the  portrait  tells  us 
that  he  has  learnt  the  last  and  most  difficult  lesson — 
how  to  omit.  Any  touch  of  light  on  those  hands 
would  rupture  the  totality  and  jeopardise  the  colour- 
harmony,  rare  without  suspicion  of  exaggeration  or 
affectation.  In  the  background  a beautiful  chocolate 
balances  and  enforces  the  various  shades  of  the  shot- 
silk,  and  with  severity  that  is  fortunate.  By  aid  of 
two  red  poppies,  worn  in  the  bodice,  a final  note  in 
the  chord  is  reached — a resonant  and  closing  con- 
sonance ; a beautiful  work,  certainly : I should  call  it 


196  THE  NE  W ENGLISH  ART  CL  UB. 


a perfect  work  were  it  not  that  the  drawing  is  a little 
too  obvious : in  places  we  can  detect  the  manner ; 
it  does  not  coule  de  source  like  the  drawing  of  the 
very  great  masters. 

Except  Mr.  Sargent,  no  one  in  the  New  English 
Art  Club  comes  forward  with  a clearly  formulated 
style;  everything  is  more  or  less  tentative,  and  I 
cannot  entirely  exempt  from  this  criticism  either  Mr. 
Steer,  Mr.  Clausen,  or  Mr.  Walter  Sickert.  But  this 
criticism  must  not  be  understood  as  a reproach — 
surely  this  green  field  growing  is  more  pleasing  than 
the  Academy's  barren  stubble.  I claim  no  more  for 
the  New  English  Art  Club  than  that  it  is  the  growing 
field.  Say  that  the  crop  looks  thin,  and  that  the 
yield  will  prove  below  the  average,  but  do  not  deny 
that  what  harvest  there  may  be  the  New  English  Art 
Club  will  bring  home.  So  let  us  walk  round  this 
May  field  of  the  young  generation  and  look  into 
its  future,  though  we  know  that  the  summer  months 
will  disprove  for  better  or  for  worse. 

Mr.  Bernard  Sickert,  the  youngest  member  of  this 
club,  a mere  beginner,  a five-  or  six-year-old  painter, 
has  made,  from  exhibition  to  exhibition,  constant  and 
consistent  progress,  and  this  year  he  comes  forward 
with  two  landscapes,  both  seemingly  conclusive  of  a 
true  originality  of  vision,  and  there  is  a certain  ease 
of  accomplishment  in  his  work  which  tempts  me  to 
believe  that  a future  is  in  store  for  him.  The  differ- 
ences of  style  in  these  two  pictures  do  not  affect  my 
opinion,  for,  on  looking  into  the  pictures,  the 
differences  are  more  apparent  than  real — the  palette 
has  been  composed  differently,  but  neither  picture 


THE  NE  W ENGLISH  ART  CL  UB.  197 


tells  of  any  desire  of  a new  outlook,  or  even  to 
radically  change  his  mode  of  expression.  The  eye 
which  observed  and  remembered  so  sympathetically 
“A  Spring  Evening,”  over  which  a red  moon  rose 
like  an  apparition,  observed  also  the  masts  and  the 
prows,  and  the  blue  sea  gay  with  the  life  of  passing 
sail  and  flag,  and  the  green  embaying  land  over- 
looking “ A Regatta.” 

I hardly  know  which  picture  I prefer.  I saw 
first  “A  Regatta,”  and  was  struck  by  the  beautiful 
drawing  and  painting  of  the  line  of  boats,  their 
noses  thrust  right  up  into  the  fore  water  of  the 
picture,  a little  squadron  advancing.  So  well  are 
these  boats  drawn  that  the  unusual  perspective  (the 
picture  was  probably  painted  from  a window)  does 
not  interrupt  for  a second  our  enjoyment  A jetty 
on  the  right  stretches  into  the  blue  sea  water, 
intense  with  signs  of  life,  and  the  little  white  sails 
glint  in  the  blue  bay,  and  behind  the  high  green  hill 
the  colours  of  a faintly-tinted  evening  fade  slowly. 
The  picture  is  strangely  complete,  and  it  would  be 
difficult  to  divine  any  reason  for  disliking  it,  even 
amongst  the  most  ignorant.  “ A Spring  Evening  ” is 
neither  so  striking  nor  so  immediately  attractive ; its 
charm  is  none  the  less  real.  An  insinuating  and 
gentle  picture,  whose  delicacy  and  simplicity  I 
like. 

The  painter  has  caught  that  passing  and  pathetic 
shudder  of  coming  life  which  takes  the  end  of  a 
March  day  before  the  bud  swells  or  a nest  appears. 
The  faint  chill  twilight  floats  upon  the  field,  and 
the  red  moon  mounts  above  the  scrub-clad  hill- 


1 98  THE  NE  W ENGLISH  ART  CL  UB . 


side  into  a rich  grey  sky,  beautifully  graduated  and 
full  of  the  glamour  of  waning  and  strengthening 
light  The  slope  of  the  field,  too — it  is  there  the 
sheep  are  folded — is  in  admirable  perspective.  On 
the  left,  beyond  the  hurdles,  is  a strip  of  green, 
perhaps  a little  out  of  tone,  though  I know  such  colour 
persists  even  in  very  receding  lights ; and  high  up  on 
the  right  the  blue  night  is  beginning  to  show.  The 
sheep  are  folded  in  a turnip  field,  and  the  root-crop 
is  being  eaten  down. 

The  month  is  surely  March,  for  the  lambs  are  still 
long-legged — there  one  has  dropped  on  its  knees  and 
is  digging  at  the  udder  of  the  passive  ewe  with 
that  ferocious  little  gluttony  which  we  know  so  well; 
another  lamb  relieves  its  ear’s  first  itching  with  its 
hind  hoof — you  know  the  grotesque  movement — and 
the  field  is  full  of  the  weird  roaming  of  animal  life, 
the  pathos  of  the  unconscious,  the  pity  of  transitory 
light.  A little  umber  and  sienna,  a rich  grey,  not 
a bit  of  drawing  anywhere,  and  still  the  wandering 
forms  of  sheep  and  lambs  fully  expressed,  one 
sheep  even  in  its  particular  physiognomy.  Truly 
a charming  picture,  spontaneous  and  simple,  and 
proving  a painter  possessed  of  a natural  sentiment, 
of  values,  and  willing  to  employ  that  now  most 
neglected  method  of  pictorial  expression,  chiaro- 
scuro. 

Neglected  by  Mr.  Steer,  who  seems  prepared  to 
dispense  with  what  is  known  as  une  atmosphlre  de 
tableau . Any  one  of  his  three  pictures  will  serve  as 
an  example.  His  portrait  of  a girl  in  blue  I cannot 
praise,  not  because  I do  not  admire  it,  but  because 


THE  NE  W ENGLISH  AR T CLUB.  199 


Mr.  MacColl,  the  art  critic  of  the  Spectator , our 
ablest  art  critic,  himself  a painter  and  a painter  of 
talent,  has  declared  it  to  be  superior  to  a Romney. 
I will  quote  his  words:  “The  word  masterpiece  is 
not  to  be  lightly  used,  but  when  we  stand  before  this 
picture  it  is  difficult  to  think  of  any  collection  in 
which  it  would  look  amiss,  or  fail  to  hold  its  own. 
If  we  talk  of  English  masters,  Romney  is  the  name 
that  most  naturally  suggests  itself,  because  in  the 
bright  clear  face  and  brown  hair  and  large  simplicity 
of  presentment,  there  is  a good  deal  to  recall  that 
painter.  But  Romney’s  colour  would  look  cheap 
beside  this,  and  his  drawing  conventional  in  observa- 
tion, however  big  in  style.” 

To  go  one  better  than  this,  I should  have  to 
say  the  picture  was  as  good  as  Velasquez,  and  to 
simply  endorse  Mr.  MacColl’s  words  would  be  a 
second-hand  sort  of  criticism  to  which  I am  not 
accustomed.  Besides,  to  do  so  would  be  to  ex- 
press nothing  of  my  own  personal  sensations  in 
regard  to  this  picture.  So  I will  say  at  once  that 
I do  not  understand  the  introduction  of  Romney’s 
name  into  the  argument.  If  comparison  there  must 
be,  surely  Mr.  Watts  would  furnish  one  more  appro- 
priate. Both  in  the  seeing  and  in  the  execution  the 
portrait  seems  nearer  to  Mr.  Watts  than  to  Romney. 
Of  Romney’s  gaiety  there  is  no  trace  in  Mr.  Steer’s 
picture. 

The  girl  sits  in  a light  wooden  arm-chair — her 
arm  stretched  in  front  of  her,  the  hands  held 
between  her  knees — looking  out  of  the  picture  some- 
what stolidly.  The  Lady  Hamilton  mood  was  an 


200  THE  NE  W ENGLISH  ART  CL  UB. 


exaggerated  mood,  but  there  is  something  of  it 
in  every  portrait  at  all  characteristic  of  our  great 
eighteenth-century  artist.  The  portrait  exhibited  in 
this  year’s  show  of  Old  Masters  in  the  Academy  will 
do — the  lady  who  walks  forward,  her  hands  held  in 
front  of  her  bosom,  the  fingers  pressed  together,  the 
white  dress  floating  from  the  hips,  the  white  brought 
down  with  a yellow  glaze.  I do  not  think  that  we 
find  either  that  gaiety  or  those  glazes  in  Mr.  Steer. 
From  many  a Romney  the  cleaner  has  removed  an 
outer  skin,  but  I am  not  speaking  of  those  pictures. 

But  if  I see  very  little  Romney  in  Steer’s  picture, 
I am  thankful  that  I see  at  least  very  rare  distinction 
in  the  figuration  of  a beautiful  and  decorative  ideal — 
a girl  in  blue  sitting  with  her  back  to  an  open  window, 
full  of  the  blue  night,  and  on  the  other  side  the  grey 
blind,  yellowing  slightly  under  the  glare  of  the  lamp. 
I appreciate  the  very  remarkable  and  beautiful  com- 
promise between  portrait-painting  and  decoration.  I 
see  rare  distinction  (we  must  not  be  afraid  of  the  word 
distinction  in  speaking  of  Mr.  Steer)  in  his  choice  of 
what  to  draw.  The  colour  scheme  is  well  maintained, 
somewhat  in  the  manner  of  Mr.  Watts,  but  neither 
the  blue  of  the  dress  nor  the  blue  of  the  night  is 
intrinsically  beautiful,  and  we  have  only  to  think  of 
the  blues  that  Whistler  or  Manet  would  have  found 
to  understand  how  deficient  they  are. 

The  drawing  of  the  face  is  neither  a synthesis,  nor 
is  it  intimately  characteristic  of  the  model:  it  is  simply 
rudimentary.  A round  girlish  face  with  a curled  mouth 
and  an  ugly  shadow  which  does  not  express  the  nose. 
The  shoulders  are  there,  that  we  are  told,  but  the  anato- 


THE  NEW  ENGLISH  ART  CLUB.  201 


mies  are  wanting,  and  the  body  is  without  its  natural 
thickness.  Nor  is  the  drawing  more  explicit  in  its 
exterior  lines  than  it  is  in  its  inner.  There  is  hardly 
an  arm  in  that  sleeve;  the  elbow  would  be  difficult 
to  find,  and  the  construction  of  the  waist  and  hips 
is  uncertain;  the  drawing  does  not  speak  like  Mr. 
Sargent’s.  Look  across  the  room  at  his  portrait  of 
a lady  in  white  satin  and  you  will  see  there  a shadow, 
so  exact,  so  precise,  so  well  understood,  that  the 
width  of  the  body  is  placed  beyond  doubt. 

But  the  most  radical  fault  in  the  portrait  I have  yet 
to  point  out ; it  is  lacking  in  atmosphere.  There  is 
none  between  us  and  the  girl,  hardly  any  between 
the  girl’s  head  and  the  wall.  The  lamp-light  effect  is 
conveyed  by  what  Mr.  MacColl  would  perhaps  call 
a symbol,  by  the  shadow  of  the  girl’s  head.  We 
look  in  vain  for  transparent  darknesses,  lights  sur- 
rounded by  shadows,  transposition  of  tones,  and 
the  aspect  of  things;  the  girl  sits  in  a full  diffused 
light,  and  were  it  not  for  the  shadow  on  the  wall 
and  the  shadow  cast  by  the  nose,  she  might  be 
sitting  in  a conservatory.  Speaking  of  another 
picture  by  Mr.  Steer,  “Boulogne  Sands,”  Mr.  Mac- 
Coil  says : “ The  children  playing,  the  holiday 
encampment  of  the  bathers’  tents,  the  glint  of 
people  flaunting  themselves  like  flags,  the  dazzle 
of  sand  and  sea,  and  over  and  through  it  all  the 
chattering  lights  of  noon.”  I seize  upon  the  phrase, 
“ The  people  flaunting  themselves  like  flags.”  The 
simile  is  a pretty  one,  and  what  suggested  it  to  the 
writer  is  the  detached  colour  in  the  picture;  and 
the  colours  are  detached  because  there  is  no  atmo- 


202  THE  NE  W ENGLISH  ART  CL  US. 


sphere  to  bind  them  together ; there  are  no  attenua- 
tions, transpositions  of  tone — in  a word,  none  of  those 
combinations  of  light  and  shade  which  make  une 
atmosphere  de  tableau . 

And  Mr.  Steer’s  picture  is  merely  an  instance  of 
a general  tendency  which  for  the  last  twenty  years 
has  widened  the  gulf  between  modern  and  ancient 
painting.  It  was  Manet  who  first  suggested  la  pein- 
ture  claire , and  his  suggestion  has  been  developed  by 
Roll,  Monet,  and  others,  until  oil-painting  has  become 
little  more  than  a sheet  of  white  paper  slightly  tinted. 
Values  have  been  diverted  from  their  original  mission, 
which  was  to  build  up  une  atmosphere  de  tableau , and 
now  every  value  and  colour  finely  observed  seem  to 
have  for  mission  the  abolition  of  chiaroscuro.  With- 
out atmosphere  painting  becomes  a mosaic,  and  Mr. 
MacColl  seems  prepared  to  defend  this  return  to 
archaic  formulae.  This  is  what  he  says  : “ The  sky  of 
the  sea-beach,  for  example,  if  it  be  taken  as  represent- 
ing form  and  texture,  is  ridiculous ; it  is  like  some- 
thing rough  and  chippy,  and  if  the  suggestion  gets 
too  much  in  the  way  the  method  has  overshot  its 
mark.  Its  mark  is  to  express  by  a symbol  the  vivid 
life  in  the  sky-colour,  the  sea-colour,  and  the  sand- 
colour,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  the  richness  and  subtlety 
of  those  colours  can  be  conveyed  in  any  other  way.” 
Here  I fail  altogether  to  understand.  If  the  sky’s 
beauty  can  be  expressed  by  a symbol,  why  cannot  the 
beauty  of  men  and  women  be  expressed  in  the  same 
way  ? How  the  infinities  of  aerial  perspective  can  be 
expressed  by  a symbol,  I have  no  slightest  notion; 
nor  do  I think  that  Mr.  MacColl  has.  In  striving  to 


THE  NE  W ENGLISH  ART  CL  UB.  203 

excuse  deficiencies  in  a painter  whose  very  real  and 
loyal  talent  we  both  admire,  he  has  allowed  his  pen 
to  run  into  dangerous  sophistries.  “The  matter  of 
handling,”  he  continues,  “is  then  a moot  point — a 
question  of  temperament”  Is  this  so  ? 

That  some  men  are  born  with  a special  aptitude 
for  handling  colour  as  other  men  are  born  with  a 
special  sense  of  proportions  is  undeniable;  but  Mr. 
MacColl’s  thought  goes  further  than  this  barren 
platitude,  and  if  he  means,  as  I think  he  does,  that 
the  faculty  of  handling  is  more  instinctive  than  that 
of  drawing,  I should  like  to  point  out  to  him  that 
handling  did  not  become  a merely  personal  caprice 
until  the  present  century.  A collection  of  ancient 
pictures  does  not  present  such  endless  experimenta- 
tion with  the  material  as  a collection  of  modern 
pictures.  Rubens,  Hals,  Velasquez,  and  Gains- 
borough do  not  contradict  each  other  so  violently 
regarding  their  use  of  the  material  as  do  Watts, 
Leighton,  Millais,  and  Orchardson. 

In  the  nineteenth  century  no  one  has  made  such 
beautiful  use  of  the  material  as  Manet  and  Whistler, 
and  we  find  these  two  painters  using  it  respectively 
exactly  like  Hals  and  Velasquez.  It  would  therefore 
seem  that  those  who  excel  in  the  use  of  paint  are 
agreed  as  to  the  handling  of  it,  just  as  all  good 
dancers  are  agreed  as  to  the  step.  But,  though  all 
good  dancers  dance  the  same  step,  each  brings 
into  his  practice  of  it  an  individuality  of  movement 
and  sense  of  rhythm  sufficient  to  prevent  it  from 
becoming  mechanical.  The  ancient  painters  relied 
on  differences  of  feeling  and  seeing  for  originality 


204  the  NE  W ENGLISH  A RT  CL  UB. 


rather  than  on  eccentric  handling  of  colour ; and  all 
these  extraordinary  executions  which  we  meet  in  every 
exhibition  of  modern  pictures  are  in  truth  no  more 
than  frantic  efforts  either  to  escape  from  the  thraldom 
of  a bad  primary  education,  or  attempts  to  disguise 
ignorance  in  fantastic  formulae.  That  which  cannot 
be  referred  back  to  the  classics  is  not  right,  and  I at 
least  know  not  where  to  look  among  the  acknow- 
ledged masters  for  justification  for  Mr.  Steer’s  jagged 
brushwork. 

Mr.  Walter  Sickert,  whose  temperament  is  more 
irresponsible,  is  nevertheless  content  within  the  tradi- 
tions of  oil-painting.  He  exhibits  two  portraits,  both 
very  clever  and  neither  satisfactory,  for  neither  are 
carried  beyond  the  salient  lines  of  character.  Nature 
has  gifted  Mr.  Sickert  with  a keen  hatred  of  the 
commonplace ; his  vision  of  life  is  at  once  complex 
and  fragmentary,  his  command  on  drawing  slow  and 
uncertain,  his  rendering  therefore  as  spasmodic  as  a 
poem  by  Browning.  He  picks  up  the  connecting 
links  with  difficulty,  and  even  his  most  complete  work 
is  full  of  omissions.  The  defect — for  it  is  a defect — 
is  by  no  means  so  fatal  in  the  art-value  of  a painting 
as  the  futile  explanations  so  dearly  beloved  by  the 
ignorant.  Manet  was  to  the  end  the  victim  of  man’s 
natural  dislike  of  ellipses,  and  Mr.  Walter  Sickert  is 
suffering  the  same  fate.  Still,  even  the  most  remote 
intelligence  should  be  able  to  gather  something  of  the 
merit  of  the  portrait  of  Miss  Minnie  Cunningham. 
How  well  she  is  in  that  long  red  frock — a vermilion 
silhouette  on  a rich  brown  background ! I should  be 
still  more  pleased  if  the  vermilion  had  been  slightly 


THE  NE  W ENGLISH  ART  CLUB.  205 


broken  with  yellow  ochre ; but  then,  at  heart,  I am  no 
more  than  un  vieux  classique.  The  edges  of  the  ver- 
milion hat  are  lightened  where  it  receives  the  glare  of 
the  foot-lights ; and  the  face  does  not  suffer  from  the 
red.  It  is  as  light,  as  pretty,  as  suggestive  as  may  be. 
The  thinness  of  the  hand  and  wrist  is  well  insisted 
upon,  and  the  trip  of  the  legs,  just  before  she  turns, 
realises,  and  in  a manner  I have  not  seen  elsewhere, 
the  enigma  of  the  artificial  life  of  the  stage. 

The  aestheticism  of  the  Glasgow  school,  of  which 
we  have  heard  so  much  lately,  is  identical  with  that 
of  the  New  English  Art  Club,  and  the  two  societies 
are  in  a measure  affiliated.  Nearly  all  the  members 
of  the  Glasgow  school  are  members  of  the  New 
English  Art  Club,  and  it  is  regrettable  that  they  do 
not  unite  and  give  us  an  exhibition  that  would  fairly 
stare  the  Academy  out  of  countenance.  Among  the 
Glasgow  painters  the  most  prominent  and  valid  talent 
is  Mr.  Guthrie’s.  His  achievements  are  more  con- 
siderable and  more  personal ; and  he  seems  to 
approach  very  near  to  a full  expression  of  the 
pictorial  aspirations  of  his  generation.  Years  ago 
his  name  was  made  known  to  me  by  a portrait  of 
singular  beauty;  an  oasis  it  was  in  a barren  and 
bitter  desert  of  Salon  pictures.  Since  then  he  has 
adopted  a different  and  better  method  of  painting ; 
and  an  excellent  example  of  his  present  style  is  his 
portrait  of  Miss  Spencer,  a lady  in  a mauve  gown. 
The  slightness  of  the  intention  may  be  urged  against 
the  picture;  it  is  no  more  than  a charming  decoration 
faintly  flushed  with  life.  But  in  his  management 
of  the  mauve  Mr.  Guthrie  achieved  quite  a little 


206  THE  NE  W ENGLISH  ART  CL  UB. 


triumph:  and  the  foreground,  which  is  a very  thin 
grey  passed  over  a dark  ground,  is  delicious,  and 
the  placing  of  the  signature  is  in  the  right  place. 
Most  artists  sign  their  pictures  in  the  same  place. 
But  the  signature  should  take  a different  place  in 
every  picture,  for  in  every  picture  there  is  one  and 
only  one  right  place  for  the  signature ; and  the  true 
artist  never  fails  to  find  the  place  which  his  work  has 
chosen  and  consecrated  for  his  name. 

I confess  myself  to  be  a natural  and  instinctive 
admirer  of  Mr.  Guthrie’s  talent.  His  picture,  “ Mid- 
summer,” exhibited  at  Liverpool,  charmed  me.  Turn- 
ing to  my  notes  I find  this  description  of  it : “ A 
garden  in  the  summer’s  very  moment  of  complete 
efflorescence ; a bower  of  limpid  green,  here  and 
there  interwoven  with  red  flowers.  And  three  ladies 
are  there  with  their  tiny  Japanese  tea-table.  One 
dress — that  on  the  left — is  white,  like  a lily,  drenched 
with  green  shadows ; the  dress  on  the  right  is  a 
purple,  beautiful  as  the  depth  of  foxglove  bells,  A 
delicate  and  yet  a full  sensation  of  the  beauty  of 
modern  life,  from  which  all  grossness  has  been 
omitted — a picture  for  which  I think  Corot  would 
have  had  a good  word  to  say.”  In  the  same  exhi- 
bition there  was  a pastel  by  Mr.  Guthrie,  which  quite 
enchanted  me  with  its  natural,  almost  naive,  grace. 
Turning  to  my  notes  I extract  the  following  lines: 
“A  lady  seated  on  a light  chair,  her  body  in  profile, 
her  face  turned  towards  the  spectator ; she  wears  a 
dress  with  red  stripes.  One  hand  hanging  by  her 
side,  the  other  hand  holding  open  a flame-coloured 
fan;  and  it  is  this  that  makes  the  picture.  The 


THE  NEW  ENGLISH  ART  CLUB . 207 


feet  laid  one  over  the  other.  The  face,  a mere 
indication ; and  for  the  hair,  charcoal,  rubbed  and 
then  heightened  by  two  or  three  touches  of  the 
rich  black  of  pastel-chalk.  A delicate,  a precious 
thing,  rich  in  memories  of  Watteau  and  Whistler,  of 
boudoir  inspiration,  and  whose  destination  is  clearly 
the  sitting-room  of  a dilettante  bachelor.” 

Mr.  Henry,  another  prominent  member  of  the 
Glasgow  school,  exhibited  a portrait  of  a lady  in  a 
straw  hat — a rich  and  beautiful  piece  of  painting, 
somewhat  “ made  up  ” and  over-modelled,  still  a 
piece  of  painting  that  one  would  like  to  possess.  Mr. 
Hornell’s  celebrated  “ Midsummer,”  the  detestation  of 
aldermen,  was  there  too.  Imagine  the  picture  cards, 
the  ten  of  diamonds,  and  the  eight  of  hearts  shuffled 
rapidly  upon  a table  covered  with  a Persian  table- 
cloth. To  ignore  what  are  known  as  values  seems 
to  be  the  first  principle  of  the  Glasgow  school.  Hence 
a crude  and  discordant  coloration  without  depth  or 
richness.  Hence  an  absence  of  light  and  the  mystery 
of  aerial  perspective.  But  I have  spoken  very  fully 
on  this  subject  elsewhere. 

Fifteen  years  ago  it  was  customary  to  speak  slight- 
ingly of  the  Old  Masters,  and  it  was  thought  that 
their  mistakes  could  be  easily  rectified.  Their  dark 
skies  and  black  foregrounds  hold  their  own  against  all 
Monet’s  cleverness;  and  it  has  begun  to  be  suspected 
that  even  if  nature  be  industriously  and  accurately 
copied  in  the  fields,  the  result  is  not  always  a picture. 
The  palette  gives  the  value  of  the  grass  and  of  the 
trees,  but,  alas,  not  of  the  sky — the  sky  is  higher 
in  tone  than  the  palette  can  go;  the  painter  there- 


208  THE  NE  W ENGLISH  ART  CL  UB. 


fore  gets  a false  value.  Hence  the  tendency 
among  the  plein  airists  to  leave  out  the  sky  or  to 
do  with  as  little  sky  as  possible.  A little  reef  is 
sufficient  to  bring  about  a great  shipwreck;  a gene- 
ration has  wasted  half  its  life,  and  the  Old  Masters 
are  again  becoming  the  fashion.  Mr.  Furse  seems  to 
be  deeply  impressed  with  the  truth  of  the  new  aesthe- 
ticism. And  he  has  succeeded  within  the  limits 
of  a tiny  panel,  a slight  but  charming  intention. 
“The  Great  Cloud ” rolls  over  a strip  of  lowland, 
lowering  in  a vast  imperial  whiteness,  vague  and 
shadowy  as  sleep  or  death.  Ruysdael  would  have 
stopped  for  a moment  to  watch  it.  But  its  lyrical  lilt 
would  trouble  a mind  that  could  only  think  in  prose ; 
Shelley  would  like  it  better,  and  most  certainly  it 
would  not  fail  to  recall  to  his  mind  his  own  immortal 
verses — 

“ I am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky ; 

I pass  through  the  pores  of  ocean  and  shores, 

I change,  but  I cannot  die.” 

What  will  become  of  our  young  artists  and  their 
aspirations  is  a tale  that  time  will  unfold  gradually, 
and  for  the  larger  part  of  its  surprises  we  shall  have  to 
wait  ten  years.  In  ten  years  many  of  these  aesthetes 
will  have  become  common  Academicians,  working 
for  the  villas  and  perambulators  of  numerous  families. 
Many  will  have  disappeared  for  ever,  some  may  be 
resurrected  two  generations  hence,  may  be  raised  from 
the  dead  like  Mr.  Brabazon,  our  modern  Lazarus — 


“ Lazare  allait  mourir  une  seconde  fois,” — 


THE  NE  W ENGLISH  ART  CL  UB.  209 


or  perchance  to  sleep  for  ever  in  Sir  Joshua’s  bosom. 
That  a place  will  be  found  there  for  Mr.  Brabazon  is 
one  of  the  articles  of  faith  of  the  younger  generation. 
Mr.  Brabazon  is  described  as  an  amateur,  and  the 
epithet  is  marvellously  appropriate;  no  one — not 
even  the  great  masters — deserved  it  better.  The 
love  of  a long  life  is  in  those  water-colours — they  are 
all  love ; out  of  love  they  have  grown,  in  its  light  they 
have  flourished,  and  they  have  been  made  lovely  with 
love. 

In  a time  of  slushy  David  Coxes,  Mr  Brabazon’s 
eyes  were  strangely  his  own.  Even  then  he  saw  Nature 
hardly  explained  at  all— films  of  flowing  colour  trans- 
parent as  rose-leaves,  the  lake’s  blue,  and  the  white 
clouds  curling  above  the  line  of  hills — a sense  of  colour 
and  a sense  of  distance,  that  was  all,  and  he  had  the 
genius  to  remain  within  the  limitations  of  his  nature. 
And,  with  the  persistency  of  true  genius,  Mr.  Brabazon 
painted,  with  a flowing  brush,  rose-leaf  water-colours, 
unmindful  of  the  long  indifference  of  two  generations, 
until  it  happened  that  the  present  generation,  with  its 
love  of  slight  things,  came  upon  this  undiscovered 
genius.  It  has  hailed  him  as  master,  and  has  dragged 
him  into  the  popularity  of  a special  exhibition  of  his 
work  at  the  Goupil  Galleries.  And  it  was  inevitable 
that  the  present  young  men  should  discover  Mr. 
Brabazon : for  in  discovering  him,  they  were  dis- 
covering themselves — his  art  is  no  more  than  a 
curious  anticipation  of  the  artistic  ideal  of  to-day. 

The  sketch  he  exhibits  at  the  New  English  Art 
Club  is  a singularly  beautiful  tint  of  rose,  spread  with 
delicate  grace  over  the  paper.  A little  less,  and 

14 


2io  THE  NEW  ENGLISH  ART  CLUB. 


there  would  be  nothing;  but  a little  beauty  has 
always  seemed  to  me  preferable  to  a great  deal  of 
ugliness.  And  what  is  true  about  one  is  true  about 
nearly  all  his  drawings.  We  find  in  them  always  an 
harmonious  colour  contrast,  and  very  rarely  anything 
more.  Sometimes  there  are  those  evanescent  grada- 
tions of  colour  which  are  the  lordship  and  signature 
of  the  colourist,  and  when  le  ton  local  is  carried 
through  the  picture,  through  the  deepest  shadows  as 
through  the  highest  lights,  when  we  find  it  persisting 
everywhere,  as  we  do  in  No.  19,  “Lake  Maggiore,” 
we  feel  in  our  souls  the  joy  that  comes  of  perfect 
beauty.  But  too  frequently  Mr.  Brabazon’s  colour  is 
restricted  to  an  effective  contrast;  he  often  skips  a 
great  many  notes,  touching  the  extremes  of  the 
octave  with  certainty  and  with  grace. 

But  it  is  right  that  we  should  make  a little  fuss  over 
Mr.  Brabazon ; for  though  this  work  is  slight,  it  is 
an  accomplishment — he  has  indubitably  achieved  a 
something,  however  little  that  something  maybe;  and 
when  art  is  disappearing  in  the  destroying  waters  of 
civilisation,  we  may  catch  at  straws.  Beyond  colour — 
and  even  in  colour  his  limitations  are  marked — Mr. 
Brabazon  cannot  go.  He  entered  St.  Mark’s,  and  of 
the  delicacy  of  ornamentation,  of  the  balance  of  the 
architecture,  he  saw  nothing;  neither  the  tracery  of 
carven  column  nor  the  aerial  perspective  of  the  groined 
arches.  It  was  his  genius  not  to  see  these  things — to 
leave  out  the  drawing  is  better  than  to  fumble  with  it, 
and  all  his  life  he  has  done  this ; and  though  we  may 
say  that  a water-colour  with  the  drawing  left  out  is  a 
very  slight  thing,  we  cannot  fail  to  perceive  that  these 


THE  NEW  ENGLISH  ART  CLUB.  211 


sketches,  though  less  than  sonnets  or  ballades,  or  even 
rondeaus  or  rondels — at  most  they  are  triolets — are 
akin  to  the  masters,  however  distant  the  relationship. 

I have  not  told  you  about  the  very  serious  progress 
that  Mr.  George  Thompson  has  made  since  the  last 
exhibition ; I have  not  described  his  two  admirable 
pictures ; nor  mentioned  Mr.  Linder's  landscape,  nor 
Mr.  Buxton  Knight’s  “ Haymaking  Meadows,”  nor 
Mr.  Christie's  pretty  picture  “ A May's  Frolic,”  nor 
Mr.  MacColl's  “Donkey  Race.”  I have  omitted 
much  that  it  would  have  been  a pleasure  to  praise ; 
for  my  intention  was  not  to  write  a guide  to  the 
exhibition,  but  to  interpret  some  of  the  characteristics 
of  the  young  generation. 

The  New  English  Art  Club  is  very  typical  of 
this  end  of  the  century.  It  is  young,  it  is  inter- 
esting, it  is  intelligent,  it  is  emotional,  it  is  cosmo- 
politan— not  the  Bouillon  Duval  cosmopolitanism 
of  the  Newlyn  School,  but  rather  an  agreeable 
assimilation  of  the  Montmartre  caffi  of  fifteen  years 
ago.  Art  has  fallen  in  France,  and  the  New  English 
seems  to  me  like  a seed  blown  over-sea  from  a ruined 
garden.  It  has  caught  English  root,  and  already 
English  colour  and  fragrance  are  in  the  flower.  A frail 
flower ; but,  frail  or  strong,  it  is  all  we  have  of  art 
in  the  present  generation.  It  is  slight,  and  so  most 
typical ; for,  surely,  no  age  was  ever  so  slight  in  its  art 
as  ours  ? As  the  century  runs  on  it  becomes  more 
and  more  slight  and  more  and  more  intelligent.  A 
sheet  of  Whatman’s  faintly  flushed  with  a rose-tint,  a 
few  stray  verses  characterised  with  a few  imperfect 
rhymes  and  a wrong  accent,  are  sufficient  foundation 


2i2  THE  NEW  ENGLISH  ART  CLUB. 


for  two  considerable  reputations.  The  education  of 
the  younger  generation  is  marvellous;  its  brains  are 
excellent ; it  seems  to  be  lacking  in  nothing  except 
guts.  As  education  spreads  guts  disappear,  and  that 
is  the  most  serious  word  I have  to  say. 

Without  thinking  of  those  great  times  when  men 
lived  in  the  giddiness  and  the  exultation  of  a constant 
creation — when  a day  was  sufficient  for  Rubens  to 
paint  the  “ Kermesse,”  thirteen  days  to  paint  the 
“ Mages,”  seven  or  eight  to  paint  the  “ Communion 
de  St.  Frangois  d’ Assise” — and  blotting  from  our 
mind  the  fabulous  production  of  Tintoretto  and 
Veronese,  let  us  merely  remember  that  thirty  years 
ago  Millais  painted  a beautiful  picture  every  year 
until  marriage  and  its  consequences  brought  his  art  to 
a sudden  close.  One  year  it  was  “Autumn  Leaves,” 
the  following  year  it  was  “ St.  Agnes’  Eve,”  and  behind 
these  pictures  there  were  at  least  ten  masterpieces — ■ 
“The  Orchard,”  “The  Rainbow,”  “Mariana  in  the 
Moated  Grange,”  “ Ophelia,”  etc.  Millais  is  far 
behind  Veronese  and  Tintoretto  in  magnificent  excel- 
lence and  extraordinary  rapidity  of  production ; but  is 
not  the  New  English  Art  Club  even  as  far  behind  the 
excellence  and  fertility  of  production  of  thirty  years 
ago? 


A GREAT  ARTIST. 


We  have  heard  the  words  “ great  artist  ” used  so 
often  and  so  carelessly  that  their  tremendous  signifi- 
cance escapes.  The  present  is  a time  when  it  is 
necessary  to  consider  the  meaning,  latent  and  mani- 
fest, of  the  words,  for  we  are  about  to  look  on  the 
drawings  of  the  late  Charles  Keene. 

In  many  the  words  evoke  the  idea  of  huge  can- 
vases in  which  historical  incidents  are  depicted, 
conquerors  on  black  horses  covered  with  gold  trap- 
pings, or  else  figures  of  Christ,  or  else  the  agonies 
of  martyrs.  The  portrayal  of  angels  is  considered 
by  the  populace  to  be  especially  imaginative,  and 
all  who  affect  such  subjects  are  at  least  in  their  day 
termed  great  artists.  But  the  words  are  capable  of 
a less  vulgar  interpretation.  To  the  select  few  the 
great  artist  is  he  who  is  most  racy  of  his  native  soil, 
he  who  has  most  persistently  cultivated  his  talent  in 
one  direction,  and  in  one  direction  only,  he  who  has 
repeated  himself  most  often,  he  who  has  lived  upon 
himself  the  most  avidly.  In  art,  eclecticism  means 
loss  of  character,  and  character  is  everything  in  art. 
I do  not  mean  by  character  personal  idiosyncrasies ; 
I mean  racial  and  territorial  characteristics.  Of 
personal  idiosyncrasy  we  have  enough  and  to  spare. 
Indeed,  it  has  come  to  be  accepted  almost  as  an 


214 


A GREAT  ARTIST. 


axiom  that  it  does  not  matter  much  how  badly  you 
paint,  provided  you  do  not  paint  badly  like  anybody 
else.  But  instead  of  noisy  idiosyncrasy  we  want  the 
calm  of  national  character  in  our  art.  A national 
character  can  only  be  acquired  by  remaining  at  home 
and  saturating  ourselves  in  the  spirit  of  our  land  until 
it  oozes  from  our  pens  and  pencils  in  every  slightest 
word,  in  every  slightest  touch.  Our  lives  should 
be  one  long  sacrifice  for  this  one  thing— national 
character.  Foreign  travel  should  be  eschewed,  we 
should  turn  our  eyes  from  Paris  and  Rome  and  fix 
them  on  our  own  fields;  we  should  strive  to  remain 
ignorant,  making  our  lives  mole-like,  burrowing  only 
in  our  own  parish  soil.  There  are  no  universities  in 
art,  but  there  are  village  schools;  each  of  us  should 
choose  his  master,  imitate  him  humbly,  striving  to 
continue  the  tradition  And  while  labouring  thus 
humbly,  rather  as  handicraftsmen  than  as  artists,  our 
personality  will  gradually  begin  to  appear  in  our  work, 
not  the  weak  febrile  idiosyncrasy  which  lights  a few 
hours  of  the  artist’s  youth,  but  a steady  flame 
nourished  by  the  rich  oil  of  excellent  lessons.  If 
the  work  is  good,  very  little  personality  is  required. 
Are  the  individual  temperaments  of  Terburg,  Metzu, 
and  Peter  de  Hoogh  very  strikingly  exhibited  in  their 
pictures  ? 

The  paragraph  I have  just  written  will  seem  like  a 
digression  to  the  careless  reader,  but  he  who  has  read 
carefully,  or  will  take  the  trouble  to  glance  back,  will 
not  fail  to  see,  that  although  in  appearance  digressive, 
it  is  a strict  and  accurate  comment  on  Charles  Keene, 
and  the  circumstances  in  which  his  art  was  produced. 


A GREAT  ARTIST 


215 


Charles  Keene  never  sought  after  originality;  on  the 
contrary,  he  began  by  humbly  imitating  John  Leech, 
the  inventor  of  the  method.  His  earliest  drawings 
(few  if  any  of  them  are  exhibited  in  the  present  collec- 
tion) were  hardly  distinguishable  from  Leech's.  He 
continued  the  tradition  humbly,  and  originality  stole 
upon  him  unawares.  Charles  Keene  was  not  an 
erudite,  he  thought  of  very  little  except  his  own 
talent  and  the  various  aspects  of  English  life  which 
he  had  the  power  of  depicting ; but  he  knew 
thoroughly  well  the  capacities  of  his  talent,  the 
direction  in  which  it  could  be  developed,  and  his 
whole  life  was  devoted  to  its  cultivation.  He  affected 
neither  a knowledge  of  literature  nor  of  Continental 
art;  he  lived  in  England  and  for  England,  content  to 
tell  the  story  of  his  own  country  and  the  age  he  lived 
in;  in  a word,  he  worked  and  lived  as  did  the  Dutch- 
men of  1630.  He  lived  pure  of  all  foreign  influence; 
no  man's  art  was  ever  so  purely  English  as  Keene's; 
even  the  great  Dutchmen  themselves  were  not  more 
Dutch  than  Keene  was  English,  and  the  result  is  often 
hardly  less  surprising.  To  look  at  some  of  these 
drawings  and  not  think  of  the  Dutchmen  is  impos- 
sible, for  when  we  are  most  English  we  are  most 
Dutch — our  art  came  from  Holland.  These  drawings 
are  Dutch  in  the  strange  simplicity  and  directness  of 
intention;  they  are  Dutch  in  their  oblivion  to  all 
interests  except  those  of  good  drawing;  they  are 
Dutch  in  the  beautiful  quality  of  the  workmanship. 
Examine  the  rich,  simple  drawing  of  that  long  coat 
or  the  side  of  that  cab,  and  say  if  there  is  not  some- 
thing of  the  quality  of  a Terburg.  Terburg  is  simple 


2l6 


A GREAT  ARTIST. 


as  a page  of  seventeenth-century  prose;  and  in  Keene 
there  is  the  same  deep,  rich,  classic  simplicity.  The 
material  is  different,  but  the  feeling  is  the  same.  I 
might,  of  course,  say  Jan  Steen;  and  is  it  not  certain 
that  both  Terburg  and  Steen,  working  under  the  same 
conditions,  would  not  have  produced  drawings  very 
like  Keene’s  ? And  now,  looking  through  the  material 
deep  into  the  heart  of  the  thing,  is  it  a paradox  to 
say  that  No.  221  is  in  feeling  and  quality  of  workman- 
ship a Dutch  picture  of  the  best  time  ? The  scene 
depicted  is  the  honeymoon.  The  young  wife  sits  by 
an  open  window  full  of  sunlight,  and  the  curtains 
likewise  are  drenched  in  the  pure  white  light.  How 
tranquil  she  is,  how  passive  in  her  beautiful  animal 
life  ! No  complex  passion  stirs  in  that  flesh;  instinct 
drowses  in  her  just  as  in  an  animal.  With  what 
animal  passivity  she  looks  up  in  her  husband’s  face  ! 
Look  at  that  peaceful  face,  that  high  forehead,  how 
clearly  conceived  and  how  complete  is  the  render- 
ing ! How  slight  the  means,  how  extraordinary  the 
result ! The  sunlight  floods  the  sweet  face  so  exquisi- 
tively  stupid,  and  her  soul,  and  the  room,  and  the 
very  conditions  of  life  of  these  people  are  revealed 
to  us. 

And  now,  in  a very  rough  and  fragmentary  fashion, 
hardly  attempting  more  than  a hurried  transcription 
of  my  notes,  I will  call  attention  to  some  three  or  four 
drawings  which  especially  arrested  my  attention.  In 
No.  10  we  have  a cab  seen  in  wonderful  perspective; 
the  hind  wheel  is  the  nearest  point,  and  in  extraordi- 
narily accurate  proportion  the  vehicle  and  the  animal 
attached  to  it  go  up  the  paper.  The  cabman  turns 


A GREAT  ARTIST. 


217 


half  round  to  address  some  observation  to  the  “fare,” 
an  old  gentleman,  who  is  about  to  step  in.  The  roof 
of  the  cab  cuts  the  body  of  the  cabman,  composing 
the  picture  in  a most  original  and  striking  manner. 
The  panels  of  the  cab  are  filled  in  with  simple  straight 
lines,  but  how  beautifully  graduated  are  these  lines,  how 
much  they  are  made  to  say ! Above  all,  the  hesitating 
movement  of  the  old  gentleman — how  the  exact 
moment  has  been  caught ! and  the  treatment  of  the 
long  coat,  how  broad,  how  certain — how  well  the 
artist  has  said  exactly  what  he  wanted  to  say  ! Another 
very  fine  drawing  is  No.  11.  The  fat  farmer  stands 
so  thoroughly  well  in  his  daily  habit;  the  great 
stomach,  how  well  it  is  drawn,  and  the  short  legs 
are  part  and  parcel  of  the  stomach.  The  man  is 
redolent  of  turnip-fields  and  rick-yards ; all  the  life  of 
the  fields  is  upon  him.  And  the  long  parson,  clearly 
from  the  university,  how  well  he  clasps  his  hands  and 
how  the  very  soul  of  the  man  is  expressed  in  the 
gesture  ! No.  16  is  very  wonderful.  What  movement 
there  is  in  the  skirts  of  the  fat  woman,  and  the  legs 
of  the  vendor  of  penny  toys  ! Are  they  not  the  very 
legs  that  the  gutter  breeds  ? 

No.  52:  a big,  bluff  artist,  deep-seated  amid  the 
ferns  and  grasses.  The  big,  bearded  man,  who  thinks 
of  nothing  but  his  art,  who  lives  in  it,  who  would  not 
be  thin  because  fat  enables  him  to  sit  longer  out  of 
doors,  the  man  who  will  not  even  turn  round  on  his 
camp-stool  to  see  the  woman  who  is  speaking  to  him; 
we  have  all  known  that  man,  but  to  me  that  man 
never  really  existed  until  I looked  on  this  drawing. 
And  the  treatment  of  the  trees  that  make  the  back- 


2l8 


A GREAT  ARTIST 


ground  ! A few  touches  of  the  pencil,  and  how  hot 
and  alive  the  place  is  with  sunlight ! 

But  perhaps  the  most  wonderful  drawing  in  the 
entire  collection  is  No.  89.  Never  did  Keene  show 
greater  mastery  over  his  material.  In  this  drawing 
every  line  of  the  black-lead  pencil  is  more  eloquent 
than  Demosthenes’  most  eloquent  period.  The  roll 
and  the  lurch  of  the  vessel,  the  tumult  of  waves 
and  wind,  the  mental  and  physical  condition  of  the 
passengers,  all  are  given  as  nothing  in  this  world 
could  give  them  except  that  magic  pencil.  The 
figure,  the  man  that  the  wind  blows  out  of  the 
picture,  his  hat  about  to  leave  his  head,  is  not  he 
really  on  board  in  a gale  ? Did  a frock  coat  flap  out 
in  the  wind  so  well  before  ? And  do  not  the  attitudes 
of  the  two  women  leaning  over  the  side  represent  their 
suffering  ? The  man  who  is  not  sea-sick  sits,  his  legs 
stretched  out,  his  hands  thrust  into  his  pockets,  his 
face  sunk  on  his  breast,  his  hat  crushed  over  his  eyes. 
His  pea-jacket,  how  well  drawn ! and  can  we  not 
distinguish  the  difference  between  its  cloth  and  the 
cloth  of  the  frock  of  the  city  merchant,  who  watches 
with  such  a woful  gaze  the  progress  of  the  gathering 
wave  ? The  weight  of  the  wave  is  indicated  with  a 
few  straight  lines,  and,  strangely  enough,  only  very 
slightly  varied  are  the  lines  which  give  the  very 
sensation  of  the  merchant’s  thin  frock  coat  made  in 
the  shop  of  a fashionable  tailor. 

It  has  been  said  that  Keene  could  not  draw  a lady 
or  a gentleman.  Why  not  add  that  he  was  neither  a 
tennis  player  nor  a pigeon  shot,  a waltzer  nor  an  accom- 
plished French  scholar?  The  same  terrible  indict- 


A GREAT  ARTIST. 


219 


ment  has  been  preferred  against  Dickens,  and  Mr. 
Henry  James  says  that  Balzac  failed  to  prove  he  was 
a gentleman.  It  might  be  well  to  remind  Mr.  James 
that  the  artist  who  would  avoid  the  fashion  plate 
would  do  well  to  turn  to  the  coster  rather  than  the 
duke  for  inspiration.  Keene’s  genius  saved  him  from 
the  drawing-room,  never  allowing  his  gaze  to  wander 
from  where  English  characteristics  may  be  gathered 
most  plentifully — the  middle  and  lower  classes. 

I find  in  my  notes  mention  of  other  drawings  quite 
as  wonderful  as  those  I have  spoken  of,  but  space 
only  remains  to  give  some  hint  of  Keene’s  place 
among  draughtsmen.  As  a humorist  he  was  certainly 
thin  compared  to  Leech ; as  a satirist  he  was  certainly 
feeble  compared  to  Gavarni ; in  dramatic,  not  to  say 
imaginative,  qualities  he  cannot  be  spoken  of  in  the 
same  breath  as  Cruikshank ; but  as  an  artist  was  he 
not  their  superior  ? 


NATIONALITY  IN  ART. 


In  looking  through  a collection  of  Reynolds,  Gains- 
boroughs, Dobsons,  Morlands,  we  are  moved  by 
something  more  than  the  artistic  beauty  of  the  pic- 
tures. Seeing  that  peaceful  farmyard  by  Morland, 
a dim  remote  life,  a haunting  in  the  blood,  rises  to 
the  surface  of  the  brain,  like  a water-flower  or  weed 
brought  by  a sudden  current  into  sight  of  the  passing 
sky.  Seeing  that  quiet  man  talking  with  his  swine- 
herd, we  are  mysteriously  attracted,  and  are  perplexed 
as  by  a memory;  we  grow  aware  of  his  house  and 
wife,  and  though  these  things  passed  away  more  than 
a hundred  years  ago,  we  know  them  all  That  other 
picture,  “Partridge  Shooting,”  by  Stubbs,  how  familiar 
and  how  intimate  it  is  to  us ! and  those  days  seem  to 
go  back  and  back  into  long  ago,  beyond  childhood 
into  infancy.  The  life  of  the  picture  goes  back  into 
the  life  that  we  heard  from  our  father’s,  our  grand- 
father’s lips,  a life  of  reminiscence  and  little  legend, 
the  end  of  which  passed  like  a wraith  across  the  dawn 
of  our  lives.  For  we  need  not  be  very  old  to  remember 
the  squire  ramming  the  wads  home  and  calling  to  the 
setter  that  is  too  eagerly  pressing  forward  the  pointer 
in  the  turnips.  A man  of  fifty  can  remember  seeing 
the  mail  coach  swing  round  the  curve  of  the  wide, 


NATIONALITY  IN  ART 


221 


smooth  coach  roads;  and  a man  of  forty,  going  by 
road  to  the  Derby,  and  the  block  which  came  seven 
miles  from  Epsom.  And  so  do  these  pictures  take  us 
to  the  heart  of  England,  to  the  heart  of  our  life,  which 
is  England,  to  that  great  circumstance  which  pre- 
ceded our  birth,  and  which  gave  not  merely  flesh 
and  blood,  but  the  minds  that  are  thinking  now. 
We  have  only  to  pass  through  a doorway  to  see 
sublimer  works  of  art.  But  though  Troy  on  and 
Courbet  were  greater  artists  than  Morland,  Morland 
whispers  something  that  is  beyond  art,  beyond  even 
our  present  life ; as  a shell  with  the  sound  of  the  sea, 
these  canvases  are  murmurous  with  the  under  life. 

That  young  lady  so  charmingly  dressed  in  white, 
she  who  holds  a rose  in  her  hand,  is  Miss  Kitty 
Calcraft,  by  Romney.  Do  we  not  seem  to  know  her  ? 
We  ask  when  we  met  her,  and  where  we  spoke  to 
her;  and  that  mystic  when  and  where  seem  more 
real  than  the  moment  of  present  life.  The  present 
crowd  of  living  folk  fades  from  us,  and  we  half  believe, 
half  know,  that  she  spoke  to  us  one  evening  on  that 
terrace  overlooking  those  wide  pasture  lands.  We  see 
the  happy  light  of  her  eyes  and  hear  the  joy  of  her 
voice,  and  they  stir  in  us  all  the  impulses  of  race,  of 
kith  and  kin. 

Romney  is  often  crude,  but  the  worst  that  can 
be  urged  against  this  portrait  is  that  it  is  superficial. 
But  what  charm  and  grace  there  is  in  its  super- 
ficiality ! Romney  was  aware  of  the  grace  and 
charm  of  the  young  girl  as  she  sat  before  him  in 
her  white  dress : he  saw  her  as  a flower ; and  in 
fluent,  agreeable,  well-bred  and  cultivated  speech  he 


222 


NATIONALITY  IN  ART 


has  talked  to  us  about  her.  The  portrait  has  the 
charm  of  rare  and  exquisite  conversation;  we  float 
in  a tide  of  sensation.  He  was  only  aware  of  her 
white  dress,  her  pretty  arm  and  hand  laid  on  her  soft 
lap.  But  while  we  merely  see  Kitty,  we  perceive 
and  think  of  Gainsborough’s  portrait  of  Miss  Wil- 
loughby. We  realise  her  in  other  circumstances, 
away  from  the  beautiful  blue  trees  under  which  he 
has  so  happily  placed  her;  we  can  see  her  re- 
ceiving visitors  on  the  terrace,  or  leaning  over  the 
balustrade  looking  down  the  valley,  wondering  why 
life  has  come  to  her  so  sadly.  We  see  her  in  her 
eighteenth-century  drawing-room  amid  Chippendale 
and  Adams  furniture,  reading  an  old  novel.  No  one 
ever  cared  much  about  Miss  Willoughby.  There  is 
little  sensuous  charm  in  her  long  narrow  face,  in  her 
hair  falling  in  ringlets  over  her  shoulders;  and  we 
are  sure  that  she  often  reflected  on  the  bitterness  of 
life.  But  Kitty  never  looked  into  the  heart  of  things  : 
when  life  coincided  with  her  desires,  she  laughed  and 
was  glad ; when  things,  to  use  her  own  words,  “ went 
wrong,”  she  wept.  And  in  these  two  portraits  we  read 
the  stories  of  the  painters’  souls. 

But  the  question  of  nationality,  of  country,  in  art 
detains  us.  Beautiful  beyond  compare  is  the  art  of 
Tourguenieff;  but  how  much  more  intimate,  how 
much  deeper  is  the  delight  that  a Russian  finds  in 
his  novels  than  ours ! However  truly  the  purely 
artistic  qualities  may  touch  us — great  art  is  universal 
— we  miss  our  native  land  and  our  race  in  Tour- 
guenieff. We  find  both  in  Dickens,  in  Thackeray. 
Miss  Austen  and  Fielding  have  little  else;  and 


NATIONALITY  IN  ART 


223 


vague  though  Fielding  may  be  in  form,  still  his  pages 
are  England,  and  they  whisper  the  life  we  in- 
herited from  long  ago.  The  superb  Rembrandt  in 
the  next  room,  the  Gentleman  with  a Hawk,  lent  by 
the  Duke  of  Westminster,  is  a human  revelation. 
We  only  perceive  in  it  the  charm,  the  adorableness, 
the  eternal  adventure  of  youth ; nationality  disappears 
in  the  universal.  This  beautiful  portrait  was  painted 
in  1643,  a year  after  the  “ Night-watch. ” The 
date  of  the  portrait  of  the  Lady  with  the  Fan  is 
not  given.  They  differ  widely  in  style ; the  portrait 
of  the  man  is  ten  years  in  advance  of  the  portrait  of 
the  woman;  it  seems  to  approach  very  closely,  to 
touch  on,  the  great  style  which  he  attained  in  1664, 
the  year  when  he  painted  the  Syndics.  Of  his  early 
style,  thin,  crabbed,  and  yellow,  there  is  hardly  a 
trace  in  the  portrait  of  the  Man  with  the  Hawk ; it  is 
almost  a complete  emancipation,  yet  it  would  be  rash 
to  say  that  the  Lady  with  the  Fan  is  an  early  work, 
painted  in  the  days  of  the  Lesson  in  Anatomy.  In 
Rembrandt’s  work  we  find  sudden  advancements 
towards  the  grand  final  style,  and  these  are  imme- 
diately followed  by  hasty  returnings  to  the  hard,  dry, 
and  essentially  unromantic  manner  of  1634.  The 
portrait  of  the  Young  Man  with  the  Hawk  was 
painted  in  middle  life.  But  if  it  contains  something 
more  than  the  suggestion  of  the  qualities  which  twenty 
years  later  he  developed  and  perfected  for  the  admira- 
tion of  all  time,  if  the  immortal  flower  of  Rembrandt’s 
genius  was  still  unblown,  this  is  blossom  prema- 
turely breaking.  The  young  man  is  shown  upon 
darkness  like  a vision : the  face  is  illuminated  mys- 


224 


NATIONALITY  IN  ATT 


teriously,  the  brush-work  is  large  and  firm,  the  paint 
is  substantial  without  being  heavy,  the  canvas  is 
smoky,  an  unnatural  and  yet  a real  atmosphere  sur- 
rounds the  head.  The  black  velvet  cap  strikes  in 
sharp  relief  against  the  background,  which  lightens  to 
a grey-green  about  the  head.  The  modelling  of  the 
face  is  extraordinarily  large  and  simple,  and  yet 
without  omissions ; we  have  in  this  portrait  a perfect 
example  of  the  art  of  being  precise  without  being 
small.  The  young  man  is  a young  nobleman.  He 
stands  before  us  looking  at  us,  and  yet  his  eyes  are 
not  fixed ; his  moustache  is  golden  and  frizzled ; his 
cheeks  are  coloured  slightly ; but  the  picture  is  prac- 
tically made  of  a few  greys  and  greens,  and  white, 
slightly  tinted  with  bitumen ; yet  we  do  not  feel,  or 
feel  very  little,  any  lack  of  colouring  matter.  Rem- 
brandt realised  in  the  romantic  young  man  his  ideal 
of  young  masculine  beauty.  Truly  a beautiful  work, 
neither  the  boyhood  nor  the  manhood,  but  the  adoles- 
cence of  Rembrandt’s  genius. 

Between  the  portrait  of  the  Lady  with  a Fan  and 
Sir  Joshua’s  portrait  of  Miss  Frances  Crewe  it  would 
be  permissible  to  hesitate;  but  to  hesitate  even  for 
one  instant  between  Miss  Crewe  and  the  Young  Man 
with  the  Hawk  would  be  unpardonable.  Sir  Joshua 
painted  as  he  thought;  he  had  an  instinctive  sense 
of  decoration  and  a deep  and  tender  feeling  for 
beauty;  he  was  especially  sensible  to  the  agreeable 
and  gay  aspect  of  things;  his  eyes  at  once  seize 
the  pleasing  and  picturesque  contour,  and  his  mind 
divined  a charming  and  effective  scheme  of  colour. 
He  saw  character  too;  all  the  surface  character- 


NATIONALITY  IN  ART 


225 


istics  of  his  model  were  plain  to  him,  and  when 
he  was  so  minded  he  painted  with  rare  intelligence 
and  insight.  He  did  not  see  deeply,  but  he  saw 
clearly.  Gainsborough  did  not  see  so  clearly,  nor  was 
his  hand  as  prompt  to  express  his  vision  as  Sir 
Joshua's ; but  Gainsborough  saw  further,  for  he  felt 
more  keenly  and  more  profoundly.  But  light  indeed 
were  their  minds  compared  with  Rembrandt's.  Rem- 
brandt was  a great  visionary ; to  him  the  outsides  of 
things  were  symbols  of  elemental  truths,  which  he 
expressed  in  a form  mighty  as  the  truths  themselves. 
There  is  no  question  of  comparison  between  him  on 
one  hand  and  Reynolds  and  Gainsborough  on  the 
other.  Yet  we  should  hesitate  to  destroy  our  Reynolds 
and  Gainsboroughs,  to  preserve  any  works  of  art,  how- 
ever beautiful  Were  we  to  keep  what  our  reason  told 
us  was  the  greatest,  we  should  feel  as  one  who  surren- 
dered England  to  save  the  rest  of  the  world,  or  as  a 
parent  who  sacrificed  his  children  to  save  a million 
men  from  the  scaffold. 


15 


SEX  IN  ART. 


Woman’s  nature  is  more  facile  and  fluent  than  man’s. 
Women  do  things  more  easily  than  men,  but  they  do 
not  penetrate  below  the  surface,  and  if  they  attempt 
to  do  so  the  attempt  is  but  a clumsy  masquerade  in 
unbecoming  costume.  In  their  own  costume  they 
have  succeeded  as  queens,  courtesans,  and  actresses,  but 
in  the  higher  arts,  in  painting,  in  music,  and  literature, 
their  achievements  are  slight  indeed — best  when 
confined  to  the  arrangements  of  themes  invented  by 
men— amiable  transpositions  suitable  to  boudoirs  and 
fans. 

I have  heard  that  some  women  hold  that  the 
mission  of  their  sex  extends  beyond  the  boudoir  and 
the  nursery.  It  is  certainly  not  within  my  province 
to  discuss  so  important  a question,  but  I think  it 
is  clear  that  all  that  is  best  in  woman’s  art  is  done 
within  the  limits  I have  mentioned.  This  conclusion 
is  well-nigh  forced  upon  us  when  we  consider  what 
would  mean  the  withdrawal  of  all  that  women  have 
done  in  art.  The  world  would  certainly  be  the 
poorer  by  some  half-dozen  charming  novels,  by  a 
few  charming  poems  and  sketches  in  oil  and  water- 
colour ; but  it  cannot  be  maintained,  at  least  not 
seriously,  that  if  these  charming  triflings  were  with- 
drawn there  would  remain  any  gap  in  the  world’s 


SEX  IN  ARE 


227 


art  to  be  filled  up.  Women  have  created  nothing, 
they  have  carried  the  art  of  men  across  their  fans 
charmingly,  with  exquisite  taste,  delicacy,  and  subtlety 
of  feeling,  and  they  have  hideously  and  most  mourn- 
fully parodied  the  art  of  men.  George  Eliot  is  one 
in  whom  sex  seems  to  have  hesitated,  and  this 
unfortunate  hesitation  was  afterwards  intensified  by 
unhappy  circumstances.  She  was  one  of  those 
women  who  so  entirely  mistook  her  vocation  as 
to  attempt  to  think,  and  really  if  she  had  assumed 
the  dress  and  the  duties  of  a policeman,  her  failure 
could  hardly  have  been  more  complete.  Jane 
Austen,  on  the  contrary,  adventured  in  no  such 
dismal  masquerade;  she  was  a nice  maiden  lady, 
gifted  with  a bright  clear  intelligence,  diversified 
with  the  charms  of  light  wit  and  fancy,  and  as  she 
was  content  to  be  in  art  what  she  was  in  nature, 
her  books  live,  while  those  of  her  ponderous  rival 
are  being  very  rapidly  forgotten.  “ Romola  ” and 
“Daniel  Deronda”  are  dead  beyond  hope  of  resur- 
rection; “The  Mill  on  the  Floss,”  being  more 
feminine,  still  lives,  even  though  its  destiny  is 
to  be  forgotten  when  “ Pride  and  Prejudice  ” is 
remembered. 

Sex  is  as  important  an  element  in  a work  of  art  as 
it  is  in  life ; all  art  that  lives  is  full  of  sex.  There  is 
sex  in  “Pride  and  Prejudice”;  “Jane  Eyre”  and 
“Aurora  Leigh”  are  full  of  sex ; “ Romola,”  “ Daniel 
Deronda,”  and  “Adam  Bede”  are  sexless,  and  there- 
fore lifeless.  There  is  very  little  sex  in  George  Sand's 
works,  and  they,  too,  have  gone  the  way  of  sexless 
things.  When  I say  that  all  art  that  lives  is  full  of 


228 


SEX  IN  ARE 


sex,  I do  not  mean  that  the  artist  must  have  led  a 
profligate  life ; I mean,  indeed,  the  very  opposite. 
George  Sand’s  life  was  notoriously  profligate,  and  her 
books  tell  the  tale.  I mean  by  sex  that  concentrated 
essence  of  life  which  the  great  artist  jealously  reserves 
for  his  art,  and  through  which  it  pulsates.  Shelley 
deserted  his  wife,  but  his  thoughts  never  wandered 
far  from  Mary.  Dante,  according  to  recent  dis- 
coveries, led  a profligate  life,  while  adoring  Beatrice 
through  interminable  cantos.  So  profligacy  is  clearly 
not  the  word  I want.  I think  that  gallantry  ex- 
presses my  meaning  better. 

The  great  artist  and  Don  Juan  are  irreparably 
antagonistic;  one  cannot  contain  the  other.  Not- 
withstanding all  the  novels  that  have  been  written 
to  prove  the  contrary,  it  is  certain  that  woman 
occupies  but  a small  place  in  the  life  of  an  artist. 
She  is  never  more  than  a charm,  a relaxation,  in 
his  life ; and  even  when  he  strains  her  to  his 
bosom,  oceans  are  between  them.  Profligate,  I 
am  afraid,  history  proves  the  artist  sometimes  to 
have  been,  but  his  profligacy  is  only  ephemeral  and 
circumstantial ; what  is  abiding  in  him  is  chastity  of 
mind,  though  not  always  of  body ; his  whole  mind  is 
given  to  his  art,  and  all  vague  philanderings  and 
sentimental  musings  are  unknown  to  him;  the  women 
he  knows  and  perceives  are  only  food  for  it,  and  have 
no  share  in  his  mental  life.  And  it  is  just  because 
man  can  raise  himself  above  the  sentimental  cravings 
of  natural  affection  that  his  art  is  so  infinitely  higher 
than  woman’s  art.  “ Man’s  love  is  from  man’s 
life  a thing  apart” — you  know  the  quotation  from 


SEX  IN  ARE 


229 


Byron,  “ Tis  woman’s  whole  existence.”  The  natural 
affections  fill  a woman’s  whole  life,  and  her  art  is 
only  so  much  sighing  and  gossiping  about  them. 
Very  delightful  and  charming  gossiping  it  often  is — 
full  of  a sweetness  and  tenderness  which  we  could  not 
well  spare,  but  always  without  force  or  dignity. 

In  her  art  woman  is  always  in  evening  dress  : there 
are  flowers  in  her  hair,  and  her  fan  waves  to  and  fro, 
and  she  wishes  to  sigh  in  the  ear  of  him  who  sits 
beside  her.  Her  mental  nudeness  is  parallel  with  her 
low  bodice,  it  is  that  and  nothing  more.  She  will 
make  no  sacrifice  for  her  art;  she  will  not  tell  the 
truth  about  herself  as  frankly  as  Jean  Jacques,  nor  will 
she  observe  life  from  the  outside  with  the  grave  im- 
personal vision  of  Flaubert.  In  musicwomen  havedone 
nothing,  and  in  painting  their  achievement  has  been 
almost  as  slight.  It  is  only  in  the  inferior  art — the  art 
of  acting — that  women  approach  men.  In  that  art 
it  is  not  certain  that  they  do  not  stand  even  higher. 

Whatever  women  have  done  in  painting  has  been 
done  in  France.  England  produces  countless  thou- 
sands of  lady  artists;  twenty  Englishwomen  paint  for 
one  Frenchwoman,  but  we  have  not  yet  succeeded  in 
producing  two  that  compare  with  Madame  Lebrun 
and  Madame  Berthe  Morisot.  The  only  two  English- 
women who  have  in  painting  come  prominently 
before  the  public  are  Angelica  Kauffman  and  Lady 
Butler.  The  first-named  had  the  good  fortune  to 
live  in  the  great  age,  and  though  her  work  is 
individually  feeble,  it  is  stamped  with  the  charm  of 
the  tradition  out  of  which  it  grew  and  was  fashioned. 
Moreover,  she  was  content  to  remain  a woman  in  her 


230 


SEX  IN  ART. 


art.  She  imitated  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  to  the  best  o! 
her  ability,  and  did  all  in  her  power  to  induce  him  to 
marry  her.  How  she  could  have  shown  more  wisdom 
it  is  difficult  to  see.  Lady  Butler  was  not  so  fortunate, 
either  in  the  date  of  her  birth,  in  her  selection  of  a 
master,  or  her  manner  of  imitating  him.  Angelica 
imitated  as  a woman  should.  She  carried  the  art 
of  Sir  Joshua  across  her  fan ; she  arranged  and 
adorned  it  with  ribbons  and  sighs,  and  was  content 
with  such  modest  achievement. 

Lady  Butler,  however,  thought  she  could  do  more 
than  to  sentimentalise  with  De  Neuville’s  soldiers. 
She  adopted  his  method,  and  from  this  same  stand- 
point tried  to  do  better ; her  attitude  towards  him  was 
the  same  as  Rosa  Bonheur’s  towards  Troyon  ; and  the 
failure  of  Lady  Butler  was  even  greater  than  Rosa 
Bonheur’s.  But  perhaps  the  best  instance  I could 
select  to  show  how  impossible  it  is  for  women  to  do 
more  than  to  accept  the  themes  invented  by  men,  and 
to  decorate  and  arrange  them  according  to  their 
pretty  feminine  fancies,  is  the  collection  of  Lady 
Waterford’s  drawings  now  on  exhibition  at  Lady 
Brownlow’s  house  in  Carlton  House  Terrace. 

Lady  Waterford  for  many  years — for  more  than 
a quarter  of  a century — has  been  spoken  of  as  the 
one  amateur  of  genius ; and  the  greatest  artists 
vied  with  each  other  as  to  which  should  pay  the 
most  extravagant  homage  to  her  talent.  Mr.  Watts 
seems  to  have  distanced  all  competitors  in  praise 
of  her,  for  in  a letter  of  his  quoted  in  the  memoir 
prefixed  to  the  catalogue,  he  says  that  she  has 
exceeded  all  the  great  Venetian  masters.  It  was 


SEX  IN  ART. 


231 


nice  of  Mr.  Watts  to  write  such  a letter;  it  was 
very  foolish  of  Lady  Brownlow  to  print  it  in  the 
catalogue,  for  it  serves  no  purpose  except  to  draw 
attention  to  the  obvious  deficiencies  of  originality  in 
Lady  Waterford’s  drawings.  Nearly  all  of  them  are 
remarkable  for  facile  grouping;  and  the  colour  is  rich, 
somewhat  heavy,  but  generally  harmonious ; the 
drawing  is  painfully  conventional;  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  find  a hand,  an  arm,  a face  that  has  been 
tenderly  observed  and  rendered  with  any  personal 
feeling  or  passion. 

The  cartoons  are  not  better  than  any  mediocre 
student  of  the  Beaux-Arts  could  do — insipid  parodies 
of  the  Venetian — whom  she  excels,  according  to 
Mr.  Watts.  When  Lady  Waterford  attempted  no 
more  than  a decorative  ring  of  children  dancing 
in  a richly  coloured  landscape,  or  a group  of 
harvesters  seen  against  a rich  decorative  sky,  such 
a design  as  might  be  brought  across  a fan,  her 
talent  is  seen  to  best  advantage;  it  is  a fluent 
and  facile  talent,  strangely  unoriginal,  but  always 
sustained  by  taste  acquired  by  long  study  of  the 
Venetians,  and  by  a superficial  understanding  of 
their  genius. 

Many  times  superior  to  Lady  Waterford  is  Miss 
Armstrong — a lady  in  whose  drawings  of  children 
we  perceive  just  that  light  tenderness  and  fanciful 
imagination  which  is  not  of  our  sex.  Perhaps 
memory  betrays  me;  it  is  a long  while  since  I have 
seen  Miss  Armstrong’s  pastels,  but  my  impression 
is  that  Miss  Armstrong  stands  easily  at  the  head 
of  English  lady  artists — above  Mrs.  Swynnerton, 


232 


SEX  IN  ART 


whose  resolute  and  distinguished  talent  was  never 
more  abundantly  and  strikingly  manifested  than  in 
her  picture  entitled  “ Midsummer,”  now  hanging  in 
the  New  Gallery.  “ Midsummer”  is  a fine  piece  of 
intellectual  painting,  but  it  proceeds  merely  from 
the  brain ; there  is  hardly  anything  of  the  painter’s 
nature  in  it ; there  are  no  surprising  admissions  in  it ; 
the  painter  never  stood  back  abashed  and  asked  her- 
self if  she  should  have  confessed  so  much,  if  she 
should  have  told  the  world  so  much  of  what  was 
passing  in  her  intimate  soul  and  flesh. 

Impersonality  in  art  really  means  mediocrity.  If 
you  have  nothing  to  tell  about  yourself,  or  if  courage 
be  lacking  in  you  to  tell  the  truth,  you  are  not  an 
artist.  Are  women  without  souls,  or  is  it  that  they 
dare  not  reveal  their  souls  unadorned  with  the  laces 
and  ribbons  of  convention?  Their  memoirs  are  a 
tissue  of  lies,  suppressions,  and  half-truths.  George 
Sand  must  fain  suppress  all  mention  of  her  Italian 
journey  with  Musset,  a true  account  of  which  would 
have  been  an  immortal  story;  but  of  hypocritical  hare- 
hearted  allusions  Rousseau  and  Casanova  were  not 
made;  in  their  memoirs  women  never  get  further 
than  some  slight  fingering  of  laces;  and  in  their  novels 
they  are  too  subject  to  their  own  natures  to 
attain  the  perfect  and  complete  realisation  of  self, 
which  the  so-called  impersonal  method  alone  affords. 
Women  astonish  us  as  much  by  their  want  of  origin- 
ality as  they  do  by  their  extraordinary  powers  of 
assimilation.  I am  thinking  now  of  the  ladies  who 
marry  painters,  and  who,  after  a few  years  of  married 
life,  exhibit  work  identical  in  execution  with  that  of 


SEX  IN  ART. 


233 


their  illustrious  husbands — Mrs.  E.  M.  Ward,  Madame 
Fantin-Latour,  Mrs.  Swan,  Mrs.  Alma-Tadema. 
How  interesting  these  households  must  be ! Imme- 
diately after  breakfast  husband  and  wife  sit  down  at 
their  easels.  “ Let  me  mix  a tone  for  you,  dear,” 
“ I think  I would  put  that  up  a little  higher,”  etc. 
In  a word,  what  Manet  used  to  call  la  peinture  a 
quatre  mains . 

Nevertheless,  among  these  well-intentioned  ladies 
we  find  one  artist  of  rare  excellence — I mean  Madame 
Lebrun.  We  all  know  her  beautiful  portrait  of  a 
woman  walking  forward,  her  hands  in  a muff.  Seeing 
the  engraving  from  a distance  we  might  take  it  for  a 
Romney ; but  when  we  approach,  the  quality  of  the 
painting  visible  through  the  engraving  tells  us  that  it 
belongs  to  the  French  school.  In  design  the  portrait 
is  strangely  like  a Romney ; it  is  full  of  all  that  bright- 
ness and  grace,  and  that  feminine  refinement,  which 
is  a distinguishing  characteristic  of  his  genius,  and 
which  was  especially  impressed  on  my  memory  by 
the  portrait  of  the  lady  in  the  white  dress  walking 
forward,  her  hands  in  front  of  her,  the  slight  fingers 
pressed  one  against  the  other,  exhibited  this  year 
in  the  exhibition  of  Old  Masters  in  the  Academy. 

But  if  we  deny  that  the  portrait  of  the  lady  with  the 
muff  affords  testimony  as  to  the  sex  of  the  painter,  we 
must  admit  that  none  but  a woman  could  have  con- 
ceived the  portrait  which  Madame  Lebrun  painted  of 
herself  and  her  little  daughter.  The  painting  may  be 
somewhat  dry  and  hard,  it  certainly  betrays  none  of  the 
fluid  nervous  tendernesses  and  graces  of  the  female 
temperament;  but  surely  none  but  a woman  and  a 


234 


SEX  IN  ART. 


mother  could  have  designed  that  original  and  ex- 
pressive composition ; it  was  a mother  who  found 
instinctively  that  touching  and  expressive  movement 
— the  mother’s  arms  circled  about  her  little  daughter’s 
waist,  the  little  girl  leaning  forward,  her  face  resting 
on  her  mother’s  shoulder.  Never  before  did  artist 
epitomise  in  a gesture  all  the  familiar  affection  and 
simple  persuasive  happiness  of  home ; the  very  atmo- 
sphere of  an  embrace  is  in  this  picture.  And  in  this 
picture  the  painter  reveals  herself  to  us  in  one  of  the 
intimate  moments  of  her  daily  life,  the  tender,  wistful 
moment  when  a mother  receives  her  growing  girl  in 
her  arms,  the  adolescent  girl  having  run  she  knows 
not  why  to  her  mother.  These  two  portraits,  both 
in  the  Louvre,  are,  I regret  to  say,  the  only  pictures 
of  Madame  Lebrun  that  I am  acquainted  with.  But 
I doubt  if  my  admiration  would  be  increased  by  a 
wider  knowledge  of  her  work.  She  seems  to  have 
said  everything  she  had  to  say  in  these  two  pictures. 

Madame  Lebrun  painted  well,  but  she  invented 
nothing , she  failed  to  make  her  own  of  any  special 
manner  of  seeing  and  rendering  things ; she  failed 
to  create  a style.  Only  one  woman  did  this,  and 
that  woman  is  Madame  Morisot,  and  her  pictures 
are  the  only  pictures  painted  by  a woman  that  could 
not  be  destroyed  without  creating  a blank,  a hiatus  in 
the  history  of  art.  True  that  the  hiatus  would  be 
slight — insignificant  if  you  will — but  the  insignificant 
is  sometimes  dear  to  us , and  though  nightingales, 
thrushes,  and  skylarks  were  to  sing  in  King’s  Bench 
Walk,  I should  miss  the  individual  chirp  of  the  pretty 
sparrow. 


SEX  IN  ART. 


235 


Madame  Morisot's  note  is  perhaps  as  insignificant 
as  a sparrow's,  but  it  is  as  unique  and  as  individual  a 
note.  She  has  created  a style,  and  has  done  so  by 
investing  her  art  with  all  her  femininity;  her  art  is  no 
dull  parody  of  ours  : it  is  all  womanhood — sweet  and 
gracious,  tender  and  wistful  womanhood.  Her  first 
pictures  were  painted  under  the  influence  of  Corot, 
and  two  of  these  early  works  were  hung  in  the  exhibi- 
tion of  her  works  held  the  other  day  at  Goupil's, 
Boulevard  Montmartre.  The  more  important  was,  I 
remember,  a view  of  Paris  seen  from  a suburb — a 
green  railing  and  two  loitering  nursemaids  in  the 
foreground,  the  middle  of  the  picture  filled  with  the 
city  faintly  seen  and  faintly  glittering  in  the  hour  of 
the  sun's  decline,  between  four  and  six.  It  was  no 
disagreeable  or  ridiculous  parody  of  Corot ; it  was 
Corot  feminised,  Corot  reflected  in  a woman's  soul,  a 
woman's  love  of  man's  genius,  a lake-reflected  moon. 
But  Corot's  influence  did  not  endure.  Through  her 
sister's  marriage  Madame  Morisot  came  in  contact 
with  Manet,  and  she  was  quick  to  recognise  him  as 
being  the  greatest  artist  that  France  had  produced 
since  Delacroix. 

Henceforth  she  never  faltered  in  her  allegiance 
to  the  genius  of  her  great  brother-in-law.  True, 
that  she  attempted  no  more  than  to  carry  his  art 
across  her  fan ; but  how  adorably  she  did  this ! 
She  got  from  him  that  handling  out  of  which  the 
colour  flows  joyous  and  bright  as  well-water,  the 
handling  that  was  necessary  for  the  realisation  of  that 
dream  of  hers,  a light  world  afloat  in  an  irradiation — 
light  trembling  upon  the  shallows  of  artificial  water, 


236 


SEX  IN  ARE 


where  swans  and  aquatic  birds  are  plunging,  and 
light  skiffs  are  moored ; light  turning  the  summer 
trees  to  blue ; light  sleeping  a soft  and  lucid  sleep  in 
the  underwoods ; light  illumining  the  green  summer 
of  leaves  where  the  diamond  rain  is  still  dripping; 
light  transforming  into  jewellery  the  happy  flight  of 
bees  and  butterflies.  Her  swans  are  not  diagrams 
drawn  upon  the  water,  their  whiteness  appears  and 
disappears  in  the  trembling  of  the  light;  and  the 
underwood,  how  warm  and  quiet  it  is,  and  penetrated 
with  the  life  of  the  summer ; and  the  yellow-painted 
skiff,  how  happy  and  how  real ! Colours  ‘ tints  of 
faint  green  and  mauve  passed  lightly,  a few  branches 
indicated.  Truly,  the  art  of  Manet  transports  en 
eventaiL 

A brush  that  writes  rather  than  paints,  that  writes 
exquisite  notes  in  the  sweet  seduction  of  a perfect 
epistolary  style,  notes  written  in  a boudoir,  notes 
of  invitation,  sometimes  confessions  of  love,  the 
whole  feminine  heart  trembling  as  a hurt  bird 
trembles  in  a man’s  hand.  And  here  are  yachts 
and  blue  water,  the  water  full  of  the  blueness  of 
the  sky;  and  the  confusion  of  masts  and  rigging 
is  perfectly  indicated  without  tiresome  explanation ! 
The  colour  is  deep  and  rich,  for  the  values  have 
been  truly  observed ; and  the  pink  house  on  the 
left  is  an  exquisite  note.  No  deep  solutions,  an 
art  afloat  and  adrift  upon  the  canvas,  as  a woman’s 
life  floats  on  the  surface  of  life.  “ My  sister-in-law 
would  not  have  existed  without  me,”  I remember 
Manet  saying  to  me  in  one  of  the  long  days  we 
spent  together  in  the  Rue  d’ Amsterdam.  True, 


SEX  IN  ART 


237 


indeed,  that  she  would  not  have  existed  without 
him ; and  yet  she  has  something  that  he  has  not 
— the  charm  of  an  exquisite  feminine  fancy,  the 
charm  of  her  sex.  Madame  Morisot  is  the  eighteenth 
century  quick  with  the  nineteenth ; she  is  the  nine- 
teenth turning  her  eyes  regretfully  looking  back  on 
the  eighteenth. 

Chaplin  parodied  the  eighteenth  century ; in 
Madame  Morisot  something  of  its  gracious  spirit 
naturally  resides ; she  is  eighteenth  century  especially 
in  her  drawings ; they  are  fluent  and  flowing ; nowhere 
do  we  detect  a measurement  taken,  they  are  free  of 
tricks — that  is  to  say  of  ignorance  assuming  airs  of 
learning.  That  red  chalk  drawing  of  a naked  girl, 
how  simple,  loose,  and  unaffected,  how  purged  of  the 
odious  erudition  of  the  modern  studio.  And  her 
precious  and  natural  remembrance  of  the  great  cen- 
tury, with  all  its  love  of  youth  and  the  beauties  of 
youthful  lines,  is  especially  noticeable  in  the  red 
chalk  drawing  of  the  girl  wearing  a bonnet,  the  veil 
falling  and  hiding  her  beautiful  eyes.  As  I stood  lost 
in  admiration  of  this  drawing,  I heard  a rough  voice 
behind  me  : “ Cest  bien  beau,  n'est  pas  ? " It  was 
Claude  Monet.  “ Yes,  isn't  it  superb  ? " I answered. 
“ I wonder  how  much  they'll  sell  it  for."  “ I'll  soon 
find  out  that,”  said  Monet,  and  turning  to  the  attend- 
ant he  asked  the  question. 

“ Pour  vous,  sept  cents  cinquante  francs." 

“ C'est  bien  ; il  est  a moi." 

This  anecdote  will  give  a better  idea  of  the  value  of 
Berthe  Morisot  than  seventy  columns  of  mine  or  any 
other  man's  criticism. 


MR.  STEER’S  EXHIBITION. 

1892. 

Before  sitting  down  to  paint  a landscape  the  artist 
must  make  up  his  mind  whether  he  is  going  to  use 
the  trees,  meadows,  streams,  and  mountains  before 
him  as  subject-matter  for  a decoration  in  the  manner 
of  the  Japanese,  or  whether  he  will  take  them  as 
subject-matter  for  the  expression  of  a human  emotion 
in  the  manner  of  Wilson  and  Millet.  I offer  no 
opinion  which  is  the  higher  and  which  is  the  lower 
road;  they  may  be  wide  apart,  they  may  draw 
very  close  together,  they  may  overlap  so  that  it  is 
difficult  to  say  along  which  the  artist  is  going ; but, 
speaking  roughly,  there  are  but  two  roads,  and  it  is 
necessary  that  the  artist  should  choose  between  them. 
But  this  point  has  been  fully  discussed  elsewhere,  and 
I only  allude  to  it  here  because  I wish  to  assure  my 
readers  that  Mr.  Steer's  exhibition  is  not  “Folkestone 
at  low  tide"  and  “Folkestone  at  high  tide." 

In  all  the  criticisms  I have  seen  of  the  present 
exhibition  it  has  been  admitted  that  Mr.  Steer  takes 
a foremost  place  in  what  is  known  as  the  modern 
movement.  I also  noticed  that  it  was  admitted  that 
Mr.  Steer  is  a born  artist.  The  expression,  from  con- 
stant use,  has  lost  its  true  significance;  yet  to  find 


MR,  STEERS  EXHIBITION 


239 


another  phrase  that  would  express  the  idea  more 
explicitly  would  be  difficult ; the  born  artist,  meaning 
the  man  in  whom  feeling  and  expression  are  one. 

The  growth  of  a work  of  art  is  as  inexplicable  as 
that  of  a flower.  We  know  that  there  are  men  who 
feel  deeply  and  who  understand  clearly  what  a work 
of  art  should  be;  but  when  they  attempt  to  create, 
their  efforts  are  abortive.  Their  ideas,  their  desires, 
their  intentions,  their  plans,  are  excellent;  but  the 
passage  between  the  brain  and  the  canvas,  between 
the  brain  and  the  sheet  of  paper,  is  full  of  ship- 
wrecking reefs,  and  the  intentions  of  these  men  do  not 
correspond  in  the  least  with  their  execution.  Noticing 
our  blank  faces,  they  explain  their  ideas  in  front 
of  their  works.  They  meant  this,  they  meant  that. 
Inwardly  we  answer,  “All  you  say  is  most  interesting; 
but  why  didn’t  you  put  all  that  into  your  picture,  into 
your  novel  ? ” 

Then  Mr.  Steer  is  not  an  abortive  genius,  for  his 
ideas  do  not  come  to  utter  shipwreck  in  the  perilous 
passage;  they  often  lose  a spar  or  two,  they  some- 
times appear  in  a more  or  less  dismantled  condition, 
but  they  retain  their  masts;  they  come  in  with  some 
yards  of  canvas  still  set,  and  the  severest  criticism 
that  can  be  passed  on  them  is,  “With  a little  better 
luck  that  would  have  been  a very  fine  thing  indeed.” 
And  not  infrequently  Mr.  Steer’s  pictures  correspond 
very  closely  with  the  mental  conception  in  which 
they  originated;  sometimes  little  or  nothing  has  been 
lost  as  the  idea  passed  from  the  brain  to  the  canvas, 
and  it  is  on  account  of  these  pictures  that  we  say  that 
Mr.  Steer  is  a born  artist.  This  once  granted,  the 


240 


MR.  STEERS  EXHIBITION. 


question  arises : is  this  born  artist  likewise  a great 
artist — will  he  formulate  his  sensation,  and  give  us  a 
new  manner  of  feeling  and  seeing,  or  will  he  merely 
succeed  in  painting  some  beautiful  pictures  when  cir- 
cumstances and  the  mood  of  the  moment  combine 
in  his  favour  ? This  is  a question  which  all  who  visit 
the  exhibition  of  this  artist’s  work,  now  on  view  in  the 
Goupil  Galleries,  will  ask  themselves.  They  will  ask 
if  this  be  the  furthest  limit  to  which  he  may  go,  or  if 
he  will  discover  a style  entirely  his  own  which  will 
enable  him  to  convey  all  his  sensation  of  life  upon 
the  canvas. 

That  Mr.  Steer’s  drawing  does  not  suggest  a future 
draughtsman  seems  to  matter  little,  for  we  remember 
that  colour,  and  not  form,  is  the  impulse  that  urges 
and  inspires  him.  Mr.  Steer  draws  well  enough  to  take 
a high  place  if  he  can  overcome  more  serious  defects. 
His  greatest  peril  seems  to  me  to  be  an  uncontrollable 
desire  to  paint  in  the  style  of  the  last  man  whose  work 
has  interested  him.  At  one  time  it  was  only  in  his  most 
unguarded  moments  that  he  could  see  a landscape 
otherwise  than  as  Monet  saw  it;  a year  or  two  later  it 
was  Whistler  who  dictated  certain  schemes  of  colour, 
certain  harmonious  arrangements  of  black;  and  the 
most  distressing  symptom  of  all  is  that  Mr.  Brabazon 
could  not  hold  an  exhibition  of  some  very  nice  tints 
of  rose  and  blue  without  inspiring  Mr.  Steer  to  go 
and  swish  water-colour  about  in  the  same  manner. 
Mr.  Steer  has  the  defect  of  his  qualities ; his  percep- 
tions are  naive:  and  just  as  he  must  have  thought 
seven  years  ago  that  all  modern  landscape-painters 
must  be  more  or  less  like  Monet,  he  must  have 


MR.  STEERS  EXHIBITION. 


241 


thought  last  summer  that  all  modem  water-colour 
must  be  more  or  less  like  Mr.  Brabazon.  This  is 
doubly  unfortunate,  because  Mr.  Steer  is  only  good 
when  he  is  Steer,  and  nothing  but  Steer. 

How  much  we  should  borrow,  and  how  we  should 
borrow,  are  questions  which  will  agitate  artists  for 
all  time.  It  is  certain,  however,  that  one  of  the  most 
certain  signs  of  genius  is  the  power  to  take  from  others 
and  to  assimilate.  How  much  did  Rubens  take  from 
Titian  ? How  much  did  Mr.  Whistler  take  from  the 
Japanese  ? Almost  everything  in  Mr.  Whistler  already 
existed  in  art.  In  the  National  Gallery  the  white 
stocking  in  the  Philip  reminds  us  of  the  white  stock- 
ings in  the  portrait  of  Miss  Alexander.  In  the  British 
Museum  we  find  the  shadows  that  he  transferred  from 
Rembrandt  to  his  own  etchings.  Degas  took  his  draw- 
ing from  Ingres  and  his  colour — that  lovely  brown  ! — 
from  Poussin.  But,  notwithstanding  their  vast  borrow- 
ings, Rubens  is  always  Rubens,  Whistler  is  always 
Whistler,  and  Degas  is  always  Degas.  Alexander  took  a 
good  deal,  too,  but  he  too  remained  always  Alexander. 
We  must  conquer  what  we  take.  But  what  Mr.  Steer 
takes  often  conquers  him ; he  is  often  like  one  suffer- 
ing from  a weak  digestion,  he  cannot  assimilate.  I 
must  except,  however,  that  very  beautiful  picture, 
“Two  Yachts  lying  off  Cowes.”  Under  a deepening 
sky  of  mauve  the  yachts  lie,  their  lights  and  rigging 
showing  through  the  twilight.  We  may  say  that  this 
picture  owes  something  to  Mr.  Whistler;  but  the  debt 
is  not  distressing ; it  does  not  strike  the  eye ; it  does 
not  prevent  us  from  seeing  the  picture  — a very 
beautiful  piece  of  decoration  in  a high  key  of  colour 

16 


242 


MR.  STEERS  EXHIBITION 


— a picture  which  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  fault 
with.  It  is  without  fault;  the  intention  of  the  artist 
was  a beautiful  one,  and  it  has  been  completely 
rendered.  I like  quite  as  well  “ The  Casino, 
Boulogne,”  the  property,  I note  with  some  interest,  of 
Mr.  Humphry  Ward,  art  critic  of  the  Times . Mr. 
Humphry  Ward  must  write  conventional  common- 
place, otherwise  he  could  not  remain  art  critic  of  the 
Times , so  it  is  pleasant  to  find  that  he  is  withal  an 
excellent  judge  of  a picture.  The  picture,  I suppose, 
in  a very  remote  and  distant  way,  may  be  said  to  be 
in  the  style  of  Wilson.  Again  a successful  assimila- 
tion. The  buildings  stand  high  up,  they  are  piled 
high  up  in  the  picture,  and  a beautiful  blue  envelops 
sky,  sea,  and  land.  Nos.  i and  2 show  Mr.  Steer 
at  his  best : that  beautiful  blue,  that  beautiful 

mauve,  is  the  optimism  of  painting.  Such  colour  is 
to  the  colourist  what  the  drug  is  to  the  opium-eater : 
nothing  matters,  the  world  is  behind  us,  and  we 
dream  on  and  on,  lost  in  an  infinity  of  suggestion. 
This  quality,  which,  for  want  of  a better  expression,  I 
call  the  optimism  of  painting,  is  a peculiar  character- 
istic of  Mr.  Steer’s  work.  We  find  it  again  in 
“Children  Paddling.”  Around  the  long  breakwater 
the  sea  winds,  filling  the  estuary,  or  perchance  recedes, 
for  the  incoming  tide  is  noisier;  a delicious,  happy, 
opium  blue,  the  blue  of  oblivion.  . . . Paddling  in 
the  warm  sea-water  gives  oblivion  to  those  children. 
They  forget  their  little  worries  in  the  sensation  of  sea 
and  sand,  as  I forget  mine  in  that  dreamy  blue  which 
fades  and  deepens  imperceptibly,  like  a flower  from 
the  intense  heart  to  the  delicate  edge  of  the  petals. 


MR.  STEER'S  EXHIBITION. 


243 


The  vague  sea  is  drawn  up  behind  the  breakwater, 
and  cut  of  it  the  broad  sky  ascends  solemnly  in 
curves  like  palms.  Happy  sensation  of  daylight;  a 
flower-like  afternoon;  little  children  paddling;  the 
world  is  behind  them;  they  are  as  flowers,  and  are 
conscious  only  of  the  benedictive  influences  of  sand 
and  sea  and  sky. 

The  exhibition  contains  nearly  every  description  of 
work : full-length  portraits  in  oil,  life-size  heads,  ei^ht- 
inch  panels,  and  some  half-dozen  water-colours.  A 
little  girl  in  a starched  white  frock  is  a charming 
picture,  and  the  large  picture  entitled  “ The  Sofa” 
is  a most  distinguished  piece  of  work,  full  of  true 
pictorial  feeling.  Mr.  Steer  is  never  common  or 
vulgar;  he  is  distinguished  even  when  he  fails. 
“ A Girl  in  a Large  Hat  ” is  a picture  which 
became  my  property  some  three  or  four  months  ago. 
Since  then  I have  seen  it  every  day,  and  I like  it 
better  and  better.  That  hat  is  so  well  placed  in  the 
canvas;  the  expression  of  the  face  and  body,  are 
they  not  perfect?  What  an  air  of  resignation,  of 
pensiveness,  this  picture  exhales  ! The  jacket  is  done 
with  a few  touches,  but  they  are  sufficient,  for  they 
are  in  their  right  places.  And  the  colour  ! Hardly 
do  you  find  any,  and  yet  there  is  an  effect  of  colour 
which  few  painters  could  attain  when  they  had  ex- 
hausted all  the  resources  of  the  palette. 


CLAUDE  MONET. 


Whether  the  pictures  in  the  Royal  Academy  be 
bad  or  good,  the  journalist  must  describe  them.  The 
public  goes  to  the  Academy,  and  the  journalist  must 
follow  the  traffic,  like  the  omnibuses.  But  the  public, 
the  English  public,  does  not  go  to  the  Salon  or  to 
the  Champ  de  Mars.  Why,  then,  should  our  news- 
papers waste  space  on  the  description  of  pictures 
which  not  one  reader  in  fifty  has  seen  or  will  see? 
I suppose  the  demon  of  aotuality  is  answerable  for  the 
wasted  columns,  and  the  demon  of  habit  for  my  yearly 
wanderings  over  deserts  of  cocoa-nut  matting,  under 
tropical  skylights,  in  continual  torment  from  glaring 
oil-paintings.  Of  the  days  I have  spent  in  those 
exhibitions,  nothing  remains  but  the  memory  of 
discomfort,  and  the  sense  of  relief  experienced  on 
coming  to  a room  in  which  there  were  no  pictures. 
Ah,  the  arm-chairs  into  which  I slipped  and  the 
tapestries  that  rested  my  jaded  eyes  ! ...  So  this 
year  I resolved  to  break  with  habit  and  to  visit 
neither  the  Salon  nor  the  Champ  de  Mars.  An  art 
critic  I am,  but  surely  independent  of  pictures — at 
least,  of  modern  pictures ; indeed,  they  stand  between 
me  and  the  interesting  article  ninety  times  in  a 
hundred. 

Only  now  and  then  do  we  meet  a modern  artist  about 


CLAUDE  MONET. 


245 


whom  we  may  rhapsodise,  or  at  whom  we  may  curse : 
Claude  Monet  is  surely  such  an  one.  So  I pricked 
up  my  ears  when  I heard  there  was  an  exhibition  of  his 
work  at  Durand  Ruel’s.  I felt  I was  on  the  trail  of 
an  interesting  article,  and  away  I went  The  first 
time  I pondered  and  argued  with  myself.  Then  I 
went  with  an  intelligent  lady,  and  was  garrulous, 
explanatory,  and  theoretical ; she  listened,  and  said 
she  would  write  out  all  I had  said  from  her  point 
of  view.  The  third  time  I went  with  two  artists. 
We  were  equally  garrulous  and  argumentative,  and 
with  the  result  that  we  three  left  the  exhibition 
more  than  ever  confirmed  in  the  truth  of  our 
opinions.  I mention  these  facts,  not,  as  the  ill- 
natured  might  suppose,  because  it  pleases  me  to 
write  about  my  own  sayings  and  doings,  but 
because  I believe  my  conduct  to  be  typical  of  the 
conduct  of  hundreds  of  others  in  regard  to  the  present 
exhibition  in  the  Rue  Laffitte ; for,  let  this  be  said  in 
Monet’s  honour : every  day  artists  from  every  country 
in  Europe  go  there  by  themselves,  with  their  women 
friends,  and  with  other  artists,  and  every  day  since  the 
exhibition  opened,  the  galleries  have  been  the  scene 
of  passionate  discussion. 

My  own  position  regarding  Monet  is  a peculiar 
one,  and  I give  it  for  what  it  is  worth.  It  is  about 
eighteen  years  since  I first  made  the  acquaintance  of 
this  remarkable  man.  Though  at  first  shocked,  I was 
soon  convinced  of  his  talent,  and  set  myself  about 
praising  him  as  well  as  I knew  how.  But  my  pro- 
phesying was  answered  by  scoffs,  jeers,  supercilious 
smiles.  Outside  of  the  Cafe  of  the  Nouvelle  Athenes, 


246 


CLAUDE  MONET 


Monet  was  a laughing-stock.  Manet  was  bad  enough ; 
but  when  it  came  to  Monet,  words  were  inadequate 
to  express  sufficient  contempt.  A shrug  of  the 
shoulders  or  a pitying  look,  which  clearly  meant, 
“Art  thou  most  of  madman  or  simpleton,  or,  maybe, 
impudent  charlatan  who  would  attract  attention  to 
himself  by  professing  admiration  for  such  eccen- 
tricity ? ” 

It  was  thus  eighteen  years  ago;  but  revolution 
has  changed  depth  to  height,  and  Monet  is 
now  looked  upon  as  the  creator  of  the  art  of 
landscape  painting;  before  him  nothing  was,  after 
him  nothing  can  be,  for  he  has  said  all  things 
and  made  the  advent  of  another  painter  impossible, 
inconceivable.  He  who  could  never  do  a right 
thing  can  now  do  no  wrong  one.  Canvases  beside 
which  the  vaguest  of  Mr.  Whistler’s  nocturnes  are 
clear  statements  of  plain  fact,  lilac-coloured  can- 
vases void  of  design  or  tone,  or  quality  of  paint,  are 
accepted  by  a complacent  public,  and  bought  by 
American  millionaires  for  vast  sums;  and  the  early 
canvases  about  which  Paris  would  not  once  tolerate 
a word  of  praise,  are  now  considered  old-fashioned. 
My  personal  concern  in  all  this  enthusiasm — the 
enthusiasm  of  the  fashionable  market-place— is  that 
I once  more  find  myself  a dissident,  and  a dissident 
in  a very  small  minority.  I think  of  Monet  now 
as  I thought  of  him  eighteen  years  ago.  For  no 
moment  did  it  seem  to  me  possible  to  think  of 
him  as  an  equal  of  Corot  or  of  Millet.  He  seemed 
a painter  of  great  talent,  of  exceptional  dexterity  of 
hand,  and  of  clear  and  rapid  vision.  His  vision 


CLAUDE  MONET, 


247 


seemed  then  somewhat  impersonal ; the  temper  of 
his  mind  did  not  illuminate  his  pictures  ; he  was 
a marvellous  mirror,  reproducing  all  the  passing 
phenomena  of  Nature  ; and  that  was  all.  And  look- 
ing at  his  latest  work,  his  views  of  Rouen  Cathedral, 
it  seems  to  me  that  he  has  merely  continued  to 
develop  the  qualities  for  which  we  first  admired  him 
— clearness  of  vision  and  a marvellous  technical 
execution.  So  extraordinary  is  this  later  execution 
that,  by  comparison,  the  earlier  seems  timid  and 
weak.  His  naturalism  has  expanded  and  strengthened : 
mine  has  decayed  and  almost  fallen  from  me. 

Monet’s  handicraft  has  grown  like  a weed;  it 
now  overtops  and  chokes  the  idea;  it  seems  in 
these  fagades  to  exist  by  itself,  like  a monstrous 
and  unnatural  ivy,  independent  of  support ; and  when 
expression  outruns  the  thought,  it  ceases  to  charm. 
We  admire  the  marvellous  mastery  with  which 
Monet  drew  tower  and  portico : see  that  tower  lifted 
out  of  blue  haze,  no  delicacy  of  real  perspective 
has  been  omitted ; see  that  portico  bathed  in  sun- 
light and  shadow,  no  form  of  ornament  has  been 
slurred;  but  we  are  fain  of  some  personal  sense  of 
beauty,  we  miss  that  rare  delicacy  of  perception  which 
delights  us  in  Mr.  Whistler’s  “Venice,”  and  in  Guardi’s 
vision  of  cupolas,  stairways,  roofs,  gondolas,  and 
waterways.  Monet  sees  clearly,  and  he  sees  truly, 
but  does  he  see  beautifully?  is  his  an  enchanted 
vision?  And  is  not  every  picture  that  fails  to 
move,  to  transport,  to  enchant,  a mistake  ? 

A work  of  art  is  complete  in  itself.  But  is  any 
one  of  these  pictures  complete  in  itself?  Is  not  the 


248 


CLAUDE  MONET 


effect  they  produce  dependent  on  the  number,  and 
may  not  this  set  of  pictures  be  compared  to  a set 
of  scenes  in  a theatre,  the  effect  of  which  is  attained 
by  combination  ? There  is  no  foreground  in  them ; 
the  cathedral  is  always  in  the  first  plane,  directly 
under  the  eye  of  the  spectator,  the  wall  running  out 
of  the  picture.  The  spectator  says,  “ What  extra- 
ordinary power  was  necessary  to  paint  twelve  views 
of  that  cathedral  without  once  having  recourse  to  the 
illusion  of  distance  ! ” A feat  no  doubt  it  was ; and 
therein  we  perceive  the  artistic  weakness  of  the 
pictures.  For  art  must  not  be  confounded  with  the 
strong  man  in  the  fair  who  straddles,  holding  a full- 
grown  woman  on  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

Then  the  question  of  the  quality  of  paint.  Manet’s 
paint  was  beautiful  as  that  of  an  old  master ; brilliant 
as  an  enamel,  smooth  as  an  old  ivory.  But  the 
quality  of  paint  in  Monet  is  that  of  stone  and  mortar. 
It  would  seem  (the  thought  is  too  monstrous  to  be 
entertained)  as  if  he  had  striven  by  thickness  of 
paint  and  roughness  of  the  handling  to  reproduce 
the  very  material  quality  of  the  stonework.  This 
would  be  realism  a outrance . I will  not  think  that 
Monet  was  haunted  for  a single  instant  by  so  shameful 
a thought.  However  this  may  be,  the  fact  remains 
that  a trompe-Poeil  has  been  achieved,  and  four  inches 
of  any  one  of  these  pictures  looked  at  separately 
would  be  mistaken  by  sight  and  touch  for  a piece  of 
stonework.  In  another  picture,  in  a haystack  with 
the  sun  shining  on  it,  the  trompe-P ceil  has  again  been 
as  cleverly  achieved  as  by  the  most  cunning  of  scene- 
painters.  So  the  haystack  is  a popular  delight. 


NOTES. 


MR.  MARK  FISHER. 

Mark  Fisher  is  a nineteenth -century  Morland; 
the  disposition  of  mind  and  character  of  vision 
seem  the  same  in  both  painters,  the  outlook 
almost  identical : the  same  affectionate  interest  in 
humble  life,  the  same  power  of  apprehending  the 
pathos  of  work,  the  same  sympathy  for  the  life  that 
thinks  not.  But  beyond  these  qualities  of  mind 
common  to  both  painters,  Morland  possessed  a 
sense  of  beauty  and  grace  which  is  absent  in  Mark 
Fisher.  Morland’s  pig-styes  are  more  beautifully 
seen  than  Mark  Fisher  could  see  them.  But  is  the 
sense  of  beauty,  which  was  most  certainly  Morland’s, 
so  inherent  and  independent  a possession  that  we 
must  regard  it  as  his  rather  than  the  common  in- 
heritance of  those  who  lived  in  his  time?  Surely 
Mark  Fisher  would  have  seen  more  beautifully  if  he 
had  lived  in  the  eighteenth  century  ? Or,  to  put  the 
case  more  clearly,  surely  Morland  would  have  seen 


250 


MR.  MARK  FISHER. 


very  much  as  Mark  Fisher  sees  if  he  had  lived 
in  the  nineteenth?  Think  of  the  work  done  by 
Morland  in  the  field  and  farmyard — it  is  in  that  work 
that  he  lives ; compare  it  with  Mark  Fisher’s,  sub- 
tracting, of  course,  all  that  Moiland  owed  to  his  time, 
quality  of  paint,  and  a certain  easy  sense  of  beauty, 
and  say  if  you  can  that  both  men  do  not  stand  on 
the  same  intellectual  plane. 

To  tell  the  story  of  the  life  of  the  fields,  and  to 
tell  it  sincerely,  without  false  sentiment,  was  their 
desire ; nor  do  we  detect  in  either  Morland  or  Mark 
Fisher  any  pretence  of  seeing  more  in  their  subjects 
than  is  natural  for  them  to  see  : in  Jacques,  yes. 
Jacques  tried  to  think  profoundly,  like  Millet ; Mark 
Fisher  does  not ; nor  was  Morland  influenced  by  the 
caustic  mind  of  Hogarth  to  satirise  the  animalism  of 
the  boors  he  painted.  He  saw  rural  life  with  the 
same  kindly  eyes  as  Mark  Fisher.  The  difference 
between  the  two  men  is  a difference  of  means,  of 
expression — I mean  the  exterior  envelope  in  which 
the  work  of  the  mind  lives,  and  which  preserves  and 
assures  a long  life  to  the  painter.  On  this  point  no 
comparison  is  possible  between  the  eighteenth  and 
nineteenth  century  painter.  We  should  seek  in  vain 
in  Mark  Fisher  for  Morland’s  beautiful  smooth  paint- 
ing, for  his  fluent  and  easy  drawing,  the  complete 
and  easy  vehicle  of  his  vision  of  things.  Mark  Fisher 
draws  well,  but  he  often  draws  awkwardly ; he 
possesses  the  sentiment  of  proportion  and  the  in- 
stinct of  anatomy;  we  admire  the  sincerity  and  we 
recognise  the  truth,  but  we  miss  the  charm  of  that 
easy  and  perfect  expression  which  was  current  in 


A PORTRAIT  BY  MR,  SARGENT.  251 


Morland’s  time.  Mark  Fisher  is  a man  who  has 
something  to  say  and  who  says  it  in  a somewhat 
barbarous  manner.  He  dreams  hardly  at  all,  his 
thoughts  are  ordinary,  and  are  only  saved  from 
commonplace  by  his  absence  of  affectation.  He 
is  not  without  sentiment,  but  his  sentiment  is  a little 
plain.  His  hand  is  his  worst  enemy;  the  touch  is 
seldom  interesting  or  beautiful. 

I said  that  Morland  saw  nature  with  the  same 
kindly  eyes  as  Mark  Fisher.  I would  have  another 
word  on  that  point.  Mark  Fisher’s  painting  is 
optimistic.  His  skies  are  blue,  his  sunlight  dozes 
in  the  orchard,  his  chestnut  trees  are  in  bloom. 
The  melodrama  of  nature  never  appears  in  his 
pictures;  his  lanes  and  fields  reflect  a gentle  mind 
that  has  found  happiness  in  observing  the  changes 
of  the  seasons.  Happy  Mark  Fisher ! An  admir- 
able painter,  the  best,  the  only  landscape-painter  of 
our  time ; the  one  who  continues  the  tradition  of 
Potter  and  Morland,  and  lives  for  his  art,  un- 
influenced by  the  clamour  of  cliques. 


A PORTRAIT  BY  MR.  SARGENT. 

Mr.  Sargent  has  painted  the  portrait  of  a beautiful 
woman  and  of  a beautiful  drawing-room ; the  picture 
is  full  of  technical  accomplishment.  But  is  it  a 
beautiful  picture  ? 

She  is  dressed  in  cherry-coloured  velvet,  and  she 
sits  on  the  edge  of  a Louis  XV.  sofa,  one  arm  by  her 


252  A PORTRAIT  BY  MR.  SARGENT 


side,  the  other  thrown  a little  behind  her,  the  hand 
leaning  against  the  sofa.  Behind  her  are  pale  yellow 
draperies,  and  under  her  feet  is  an  Aubasson  carpet. 
The  drawing  is  swift,  certain,  and  complete.  The 
movement  of  the  arm  is  so  well  rendered  that  we 
know  the  exact  pressure  of  the  long  fingers  that 
melt  into  a padded  silken  sofa.  But  is  the  draw- 
ing distinguished,  or  subtle,  or  refined?  or  is  it 
mere  parade  of  knowledge  and  practice  of  hand? 
The  face  charms  us  with  its  actuality ; but  is  there  a 
touch  intimately  characteristic  of  the  model  ? or  is  it 
merely  a vivacious  appearance  ? 

But  if  the  drawing  when  judged  by  the  highest 
standard  fails  to  satisfy  us,  what  shall  be  said  of  the 
colour  ? Think  of  a cherry-coloured  velvet  filling 
half  the  picture — the  pale  cherry  pink  known  as 
cerise — with  mauve  lights,  and  behind  it  pale 
yellowish  draperies  and  an  Aubasson  carpet  under 
the  lady’s  feet.  Of  course  this  is  very  “ daring,” 
but  is  it  anything  more?  Is  the  colour  deep  and 
sonorous,  like  Alfred  Stevens’  red  velvets;  or  is  it 
thin  and  harsh,  like  Duran  ? Has  any  attempt  been 
made  to  compose  the  colour,  to  carry  it  through 
the  picture?  There  are  a few  touches  of  red 
in  the  carpet,  none  in  the  draperies,  so  the  dress  is 
practically  a huge  splash  transferred  from  nature  to 
the  canvas.  And  when  we  ask  ourselves  if  the  picture 
has  style,  is  not  the  answer : It  is  merely  the 
apotheosis  of  fashionable  painting  ? It  is  what  Messrs, 
Shannon,  Hacker,  and  Solomon  would  like  to  do,  but 
what  they  cannot  do,  Mr.  Sargent  has  realised  their 
dreams  for  them ; he  has  told  us  what  the  new 


A PORTRAIT  BY  MR.  SARGENT  253 


generation  of  Academicians  want,  he  has  revealed 
their  souls’  desire,  and  it  is — V article  de  Paris. 

The  portrait  is  therefore  a prodigious  success;  to 
use  an  expression  which  will  be  understood  in  the 
studios,  “it  knocks  the  walls  silly;”  you  see  nothing 
else  in  the  gallery ; and  it  wins  the  suffrages  of  the 
artists  and  the  public  alike.  Duran  never  drew  so 
fluently  as  that,  nor  was  he  ever  capable  of  so  pictorial 
an  intention.  Chaplin,  for  it  recalls  Chaplin,  was 
always  heavier,  more  conventional;  above  all,  less 
real.  For  it  is  very  real,  and  just  the  reality  that 
ladies  like,  reality  without  grossness;  in  other  words, 
without  criticism.  So  Mr.  Sargent  gets  his  public,  as 
the  saying  goes,  “all  round.”  He  gets  the  ladies, 
because  it  realises  the  ideal  they  have  formed  of  them- 
selves ; he  gets  the  artists,  because  it  is  the  realisation 
of  the  pictorial  ideals  of  the  present  day. 

The  picture  has  been  described  as  marvellous, 
brilliant,  astonishing,  superb,  but  no  one  has  described 
it  as  beautiful.  Whether  because  of  the  commonness 
of  the  epithet,  or  because  every  one  felt  that  beautiful 
was  not  the  adjective  that  expressed  the  sensation  the 
picture  awoke  in  him,  I know  not.  It  is  essentially  a 
picture  of  the  hour ; it  fixes  the  idea  of  the  moment 
and  reminds  one  somewhat  of  a premiere  at  the 
Vaudeville  with  Sarah  in  a new  part.  Every  one  is  on 
the  qui  vive.  The  salle  is  alive  with  murmurs  of 
approbation.  It  is  the  joy  of  the  passing  hour,  the 
delirium  of  the  sensual  present.  The  appeal  is  the 
same  as  that  of  food  and  drink  and  air  and  love.  But 
when  painters  are  pursuing  new  ideals,  when  all  that 
constitutes  the  appearance  of  our  day  has  changed, 


254  AN  ORCHID  B V MR.  JAMES. 

I fear  that  many  will  turn  with  a shudder  from  its 
cold,  material  accomplishment. 


AN  ORCHID  BY  MR.  JAMES. 

A Kensington  Museum  student  would  have  drawn 
that  flower  carefully  with  a lead  pencil ; it  would  be 
washed  with  colour  and  stippled  until  it  reached  the 
quality  of  wool,  which  is  so  much  admired  in  that 
art  training-school;  and  whenever  the  young  lady 
was  not  satisfied  with  the  turn  her  work  was  taking, 
she  would  wash  the  displeasing  portion  out  and  start 
afresh.  The  difference — there  are  other  differences 
— but  the  difference  we  are  concerned  with  between 
this  hypothetical  young  person  of  Kensington  educa- 
tion and  Mr.  James,  is  that  the  drawing  which  Mr. 
James  exhibits  is  not  a faithful  record  of  all  the 
difficulties  that  are  met  with  in  painting  an  orchid. 
A hundred  orchids  preceded  the  orchid  on  the  wall 
— some  were  good  in  colour  and  failed  in  drawing, 
and  vice  versa . Others  were  excellent  in  drawing 

and  colour,  but  the  backgrounds  did  not  come  out 
right.  All  these  were  destroyed.  That  mauve  and 
grey  orchid  was  probably  not  even  sketched  in  with  a 
lead  pencil.  Mr.  James  desired  an  uninterrupted 
expression  of  its  beauty : to  first  sketch  it  with  a 
pencil  would  be  to  lose  something  of  his  first  vivid- 
ness of  impression.  It  must  flow  straight  out  of  the 
brush.  But  to  attain  such  fluency  it  was  necessary  to 
paint  that  orchid  a hundred  times  before  its  form  and 
colour  were  learnt  sufficiently  to  admit  of  the  expres- 


AN  ORCHID  R V MR.  JAMES.  255 


sion  of  all  the  flower’s  beauty  in  one  painting.  It  is 
not  that  Mr.  James  has  laboured  less  but  ten  times 
more  than  the  Kensington  student.  But  all  the  pre- 
liminary labour  having  been  discarded,  it  seems  as 
simple  and  as  slight  a thing  as  may  be — a flower  in  a 
glass,  the  flower  drawn  only  in  its  essentials,  the  glass 
faintly  indicated,  a flowing  tint  of  mauve  dissolving 
to  grey,  the  red  heart  of  the  flower  for  the  centre  of 
interest.  A decoration  for  where  ? I imagine  it  in  a 
boudoir  whose  walls  are  stretched  and  whose  windows 
are  curtained  with  grey  silk.  From  the  ceiling  hangs 
a chandelier,  cut  glass — pure  Louis  XV.  The  furni- 
ture that  I see  is  modern;  but  here  and  there  a 
tabouret , a gueridon , or  a delicate  'etaglre , filled  with 
tiny  volumes  of  Musset  and  two  or  three  rare  modern 
writers,  recall  the  eighteenth  century.  And  who  sits 
in  this  delicate  boudoir  perfumed  with  a faint  scent, 
a sachet-scented  pocket-handkerchief?  Surely  one  of 
Sargent’s  ladies.  Perhaps  the  lady  in  the  shot-silk 
dress  who  sat  on  an  eighteenth-century  French  sofa 
two  years  ago  in  the  Academy,  her  tiny,  plump, 
curved  white  hand,  drawn  as  well  in  its  interior  as  in 
exterior  limits,  hanging  over  the  gilt  arm  of  the  sofa. 
But  she  sits  now,  in  the  boudoir  I have  imagined,  in 
a low  arm-chair  covered  with  grey  silk ; her  feet  lie 
one  over  the  other  on  the  long-haired  rug ; the  fire 
burns  low  in  the  grate,  and  the  soft  spring  sunlight 
laps  through  the  lace  curtains,  filling  the  room  with  a 
bland,  moody,  retrospective  atmosphere.  She  sits 
facing  Mr.  James’s  water-colour.  She  is  looking  at 
it,  she  does  not  see  it;  her  thoughts  are  far  away,  and 
their  importance  is  slight. 


256 


THE  WHISTLER  ALBUM 


THE  WHISTLER  ALBUM. 

The  photograph  of  the  portrait  of  Miss  Alexander  is 
as  suggestive  of  the  colour  as  a pianoforte  arrangement 
of  Tristan  is  of  the  orchestration.  The  sounds  of  the 
different  instruments  come  through  the  thin  tinkle  of 
the  piano  just  as  the  colour  of  the  blond  hair,  the  deli- 
cate passages  of  green-grey  and  green,  come  through 
the  black  and  white  of  the  photograph.  Truly  a 
beautiful  thing ! But  “ Before  the  Mirror  ” reflects 
perhaps  a deeper  beauty.  The  influence  of  that 
strange  man,  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  is  sufficiently 
plain  in  this  picture.  He  who  could  execute  hardly 
at  all  in  paint,  and  whose  verse  is  Italian,  though 
the  author  wrote  and  spoke  no  language  but 
English,  foisted  the  character  of  his  genius  upon  all 
the  poetry  and  painting  of  his  generation.  It  is 
as  present  in  this  picture  as  it  is  in  Swinburne’s  first 
volume  of  Poems  and  Ballads.  Mr.  Whistler  took 
the  type  of  woman  and  the  sentiment  of  the  picture 
from  Rossetti ; he  saw  that  even  in  painting  Rossetti 
had  something  to  say,  and,  lest  an  artistic  thought 
should  be  lost  to  the  world  through  inadequate  expres- 
sion, he  painted  this  picture.  He  did  not  go  on 
painting  pictures  in  the  Rossetti  sentiment,  because 
he  thought  he  had  exhausted  Rossetti  in  one  picture. 
In  this  he  was  possibly  mistaken,  but  the  large, 
white,  indolent  shoulders,  misshapen,  almost  gro- 
tesque in  original  Rossettis,  are  here  in  beautiful 
prime  and  plenitude;  the  line  of  the  head  and 
neck,  the  hair  falling  over  the  stooped  shoulder 


THE  WHISTLER  ALBUM, 


257 


—a  sensuous  dream  it  is;  all  her  body’s  beauty,  to 
borrow  a phrase  from  Rossetti,  is  in  that  white  dress ; 
and  the  beauty  of  the  arm  in  its  full  white  sleeve 
lies  along  the  white  chimney-piece,  the  fingers 
languidly  open  : two  fallen  over  the  edge,  two  touch- 
ing the  blue  vase.  Note  how  beautiful  is  the  placing 
of  this  figure  in  the  picture;  how  the  golden  head 
shines,  high  up  in  the  right-hand  corner,  and  the 
white  dress  and  white-sleeved  arms  fill  the  picture 
with  an  exquisite  music  of  proportion.  The  dress 
cuts  against  the  black  grate,  and  the  angle  of 
black  is  the  very  happiest;  it  is  brightened  with 
pink  sprays  of  azaleas,  and  they  seem  to  whisper 
the  very  enchanted  bloom  of  their  life  into  the 
picture.  Never  did  Dutch  or  Japanese  artist  paint 
flowers  like  these.  And  the  fluent  music  of  the 
painting  seems  only  to  enforce  the  languor  and 
reverie  which  this  canvas  exhales : the  languor  of 
white  dress  and  gold  hair;  languor  and  golden 
reverie  float  in  the  mirror  like  a sunset  in  placid 
waters.  The  profile  in  full  light  is  thrilled  with  grief 
of  present  hours;  the  full  face  half  lost  in  shadow, 
far  away — a ghost  of  a dead  self — is  dreaming  with 
half-closed  eyes,  unmindful  of  what  may  be.  By  her 
mirror,  gowned  in  white  as  if  for  dreams,  she  watches 
life  flowing  past  her,  and  she  knows  of  no  use  to 
make  of  it. 


*7 


258 


INGRES . 


INGRES. 

Raphael  was  a great  designer,  but  there  are  a 
purity  and  a passion  in  Ingres’  line  for  the  like  of 
which  we  have  to  go  back  to  the  Greeks.  Apelles 
could  not  have  realised  more  exquisite  simplifica- 
tions, could  not  have  dreamed  into  any  of  his  lost 
works  a purer  soul  of  beauty  than  Ingres  did  into  the 
head,  arms,  and  torso  of  “La  Source.”  The  line 
that  floats  about  the  muscles  of  an  arm  is  illusive, 
evanescent,  as  an  evening -tinted  sky;  and  none 
except  the  Greeks  and  Ingres  have  attained  such 
mystery  of  line : not  Raphael,  not  even  Michael 
Angelo  in  the  romantic  anatomies  of  his  stupendous 
creations.  Ingres  was  a Frenchman  animated  by  the 
soul  of  an  ancient  Greek,  an  ancient  Greek  who  lost 
himself  in  Japan.  There  is  as  much  mystery  in  Ingres' 
line  as  in  Rembrandt’s  light  and  shade.  The  arms  and 
wrists  and  hands  of  the  lady  seated  among  the  blue 
cushions  in  the  Louvre  are  as  illusive  as  any  one 
of  Mr.  Whistler’s  “Nocturnes.”  The  beautiful 
“Andromeda,”  head  and  throat  leaned  back  almost 
out  of  nature,  wild  eyes  and  mass  of  heavy  hair, 
long  white  arms  uplifted,  chained  to  the  basalt, — how 
rare  the  simplifications,  those  arms,  that  body,  the 
straight  flanks  and  slender  leg  advancing, — are  made 
of  lines  simple  and  beautiful  as  those  which  in  the 
Venus  of  Milo  realise  the  architectural  beauty  of 
woman.  We  shrink  from  such  comparison,  for  per- 
force we  see  that  the  grandeur  of  the  Venus  is  not 
in  the  Andromeda : but  in  both  is  the  same  quality 


INGRES. 


259 


of  beauty.  In  the  drawing  for  the  odalisque,  in  her 
long  back,  wonderful  as  a stem  of  woodbine,  there 
is  the  very  same  love  of  form  which  a Greek  ex- 
pressed with  the  benign  ease  of  a god  speaking  his 
creation  through  the  harmonious  universe. 

But  the  pure,  unconscious  love  of  form,  inherited 
from  the  Greeks,  sometimes  turned  to  passion  in 
Ingres : not  in  “ La  Source,”  she  is  wholly  Greek ; 
but  in  the  beautiful  sinuous  back  of  the  odalisque 
we  perceive  some  of  the  exasperation  of  nerves  which 
betrays  our  century.  If  Phidias’  sketches  had  come 
down  to  us,  the  margin  filled  with  his  hesitations,  we 
should  know  more  of  his  intimate  personality.  You 
notice,  my  dear  reader,  how  intolerant  I am  of  criticism 
of  my  idol,  how  I repudiate  any  slight  suggestion  of 
imperfection,  how  I turn  upon  myself  and  defend  my 
god.  Before  going  to  bed,  I often  stand,  candle 
in  hand,  before  the  Roman  lady  and  enumerate  the 
adorable  perfections  of  the  drawing.  I am  aware  of 
my  weakness,  I have  pleaded  guilty  to  an  idolatrous 
worship,  but,  if  I have  expressed  myself  as  I intended, 
my  great  love  will  seem  neither  vain  nor  unreasonable. 
For  surely  for  quality  of  beautiful  line  this  man  stands 
nearer  to  the  Greeks  than  any  other. 


SOME  JAPANESE  PRINTS. 


“Ladies  under  trees.”  Not  Japanese  ladies 
walking  under  Japanese  trees — that  is  to  say,  trees 
peculiar  to  Japan,  planted  and  fashioned  according 
to  the  mode  of  Japan — but  merely  ladies  walking 
under  trees.  True  that  the  costumes  are  Japanese, 
the  writing  on  the  wall  is  in  Japanese  characters,  the 
umbrellas  and  the  idol  on  the  tray  are  Japanese; 
universality  is  not  attained  by  the  simple  device  of 
dressing  the  model  in  a sheet  and  eliminating  all 
accessories  that  might  betray  time  and  country ; the 
great  artist  accepts  the  costume  of  his  time  and  all 
the  special  signs  of  his  time,  and  merely  by  the  lovely 
exercise  of  genius  the  mere  accidents  of  a generation 
become  the  symbolic  expression  of  universal  sensation 
and  lasting  truths.  Do  not  ask  me  how  this  trans- 
formation is  effected ; it  is  the  secret  of  every  great 
artist,  a secret  which  he  exercises  unconsciously,  and 
which  no  critic  has  explained. 

Looking  at  this  yard  of  coloured  print,  I ask 
myself  how  it  is  that  ever  since  art  began  no  such 
admirable  result  has  been  obtained  with  means  so 
slight.  A few  outlines  drawn  with  pen  and  ink  or 
pencil,  and  the  interspaces  filled  in  with  two  flat 
tints — a dark  green,  and  a grey  verging  on  mauve. 


SOME  JAPANESE  PRINTS, 


261 


The  drawing  of  the  figures  is  marvellously  beautiful. 
But  why  is  it  beautiful  ? Is  it  because  of  the  indi- 
vidual character  represented  in  the  faces  ? The  faces 
are  expressed  by  means  of  a formula,  and  are  as 
like  one  another  as  a row  of  eggs.  Are  the  propor- 
tions of  the  figure  correctly  measured,  and  are  the 
anatomies  well  understood?  The  figures  are  in 
the  usual  proportions  so  far  as  the  number  of  heads 
is  concerned  : they  are  all  from  six  and  a half  to  seven 
heads  high ; but  no  motion  of  limbs  happens  under 
the  draperies,  and  the  hands  and  feet,  like  the  faces, 
are  expressed  by  a set  of  arbitrary  conventions.  It  is 
not  even  easy  to  determine  whether  the  posture  of 
the  woman  on  the  right  is  intended  for  sitting  or 
kneeling.  She  holds  a tray,  on  which  is  an  idol,  and 
to  provide  sufficient  balance  for  the  composition  the 
artist  has  placed  a yellow  umbrella  in  the  idol’s  hand. 
Examine  this  design  from  end  to  end,  and  nowhere 
will  you  find  any  desire  to  imitate  nature.  With  a 
line  Utamaro  expresses  all  that  he  deems  it  necessary 
to  express  of  a face’s  contour.  Three  or  four  con- 
ventional markings  stand  for  eyes,  mouth,  and  ears; 
no  desire  to  convey  the  illusion  of  a rounded  surface 
disturbed  his  mind  for  a moment ; the  intention 
of  the  Japanese  artists  was  merely  to  decorate  a 
surface  with  line  and  colour.  It  was  no  part  of  their 
scheme  to  compete  with  nature,  so  it  could  not 
occur  to  them  to  cover  one  side  of  a face  with  shadow. 
The  Japanese  artists  never  thought  to  deceive;  the 
art  of  deception  they  left  to  their  conjurers.  The 
Japanese  artist  thought  of  harmony,  not  of  accuracy 
of  line,  and  of  harmony,  not  of  truth  of  colour ; it 


262 


SOME  JAPANESE  PRINTS \ 


was  therefore  impossible  for  him  to  entertain  the 
idea  of  shading  his  drawings,  and  had  some  one 
whispered  the  idea  to  him  he  would  have  answered : 
“ The  frame  will  always  tell  people  that  they  are 
not  looking  at  nature.  You  would  have  it  all 
heavy  and  black,  but  I want  something  light,  and 
bright,  and  full  of  beauty.  See  these  lines,  are 
they  not  in  themselves  beautiful?  are  they  not 
sharp,  clear,  and  flowing,  according  to  the  ne- 
cessity of  the  composition  ? Are  not  the  grey 
and  the  dark  green  sufficiently  contrasted  ? do  they 
not  bring  to  your  eyes  a sense  of  repose  and  unity  ? 
Look  at  the  embroideries  on  the  dresses,  are  they  not 
delicate?  do  not  the  star-flowers  come  in  the  right 
place?  is  not  the  yellow  in  harmony  with  the  grey 
and  the  green  ? And  the  blossoms  on  the  trees,  are 
they  not  touched  in  with  the  lightness  of  hand  and 
delicacy  of  tone  that  you  desire?  Step  back  and 
see  if  the  spots  of  colour  and  the  effects  of  line 
become  confused,  or  if  they  still  hold  their  places 
from  a distance  as  well  as  close.  . , 

Ladies  under  trees,  by  Utamaro  ! That  grey-green 
design  alternated  with  pale  yellow  corresponds  more 
nearly  to  a sonata  by  Mozart  than  to  anything  else ; 
both  are  fine  decorations,  musical  and  pictorial  de- 
corations, expressing  nothing  more  definite  than  that 
sense  of  beauty  which  haunts  the  world.  The  fields 
give  flowers,  and  the  hands  of  man  works  of  art. 

Then  this  art  is  wholly  irresponsible — it  grows, 
obeying  no  rules,  even  as  the  flowers  ? 

In  obedience  to  the  laws  of  some  irregular  metre 
so  delicate  and  subtle  that  its  structure  escapes  our 


SOJfE  JAPANESE  PRINTS.  263 

analysis,  the  flowers  bloom  in  faultless,  flawless,  and 
ever-varying  variety.  We  can  only  say  these  are 
beautiful  because  they  are  beautiful.  . . . 

That  is  begging  the  question. 

He  who  attempts  to  go  to  the  root  of  things  always 
finds  himself  begging  the  question  in  the  end.  . . . 

But  you  have  to  admit  that  a drawing  that  does 
not  correspond  to  the  object  which  the  artist  has  set 
himself  to  copy  cannot  be  well  drawn. 

That  idea  is  the  blight  that  has  fallen  on  European 
art.  The  goodness  or  the  badness  of  a drawing  exists 
independently  of  the  thing  copied.  We  say — speak- 
ing of  a branch,  of  a cloud,  of  a rock,  of  a flower,  of  a 
leaf — how  beautifully  drawn  ! Some  clouds  and  some 
leaves  are  better  drawn  than  others,  not  on  account 
of  complexity  or  simplicity  of  form,  but  because  they 
interpret  an  innate  sense  of  harmony  inherent  in  us. 
And  this  natural  drawing,  which  exists  sometimes 
irrespective  of  anatomies  and  proportions,  is  always 
Utamaro's. 

I do  not  know  how  long  I stood  examining  this 
beautiful  drawing,  studying  the  grey  and  the  green 
tint,  admiring  the  yellow  flowers  on  the  dresses, 
wondering  at  the  genius  that  placed  the  yellow  um- 
brella in  the  idol’s  hand,  the  black  masses  of  hair 
above  the  faces,  so  charmingly  decorated  with  great 
yellow  hair-pins.  I watched  the  beauty  of  the  trees, 
and  was  moved  by  the  placing  of  the  trees  in  the 
composition,  and  I delighted  in  the  delicate  blossoms. 
I was  enchanted  by  all  this  bright  and  gracious 
paganism  which  Western  civilisation  has  already  de- 
faced, and  in  a few  years  will  have  wholly  destroyed. 


264  SOME  JAPANESE  PRINTS . 


I might  describe  more  prints,  and  the  pleasure  they 
nave  given  me ; I might  pile  epithet  upon  epithet ; I 
might  say  that  the  colour  was  as  deep  and  as  delicate 
as  dower-bloom,  and  every  outline  spontaneous,  and 
exquisite  to  the  point  of  reminding  me  of  the  hopbine 
and  ferns.  It  would  be  well  to  say  these  things ; the 
praise  would  be  appropriate  to  the  occasion;  but 
rather  am  I minded  to  call  the  reader’s  attention  to 
what  seems  to  me  to  be  an  essential  difference  between 
the  East  and  the  West. 

Michael  Angelo  and  Velasquez,  however  huge  their 
strength  in  portraiture  and  decoration,  however  sub- 
lime Veronese  and  Tintoretto  in  magnificent  display 
of  colour,  we  must  perforce  admit  to  Oriental  art  a 
refinement  of  thought  and  a delicacy  of  handicraft — 
the  outcome  of  the  original  thought— which  never  was 
attained  by  Italy,  and  which  so  transcends  our  grosser 
sense  that  it  must  for  ever  remain  only  half  perceived 
and  understood  by  us. 


THE  NEW  ART  CRITICISM. 


Before  commenting  on  the  very  thoughtless  utter- 
ances of  two  distinguished  men,  I think  I must — 
even  at  the  risk  of  appearing  to  attach  over-much 
importance  to  my  criticisms — reprint  what  I said 
about  L Absinthe;  for  in  truth  it  was  I who  first 
meddled  with  the  moral  tap,  and  am  responsible  for 
the  overflow: — 

‘Look  at  the  head  of  the  old  Bohemian — the 
e engraver  Deboutin — a man  whom  I have  known  all 
£ my  life,  and  yet  he  never  really  existed  for  me  until 
£ I saw  this  picture.  There  is  the  hat  I have  always 
c known,  on  the  back  of  his  head  as  I have  always  seen 
£ it,  and  the  wooden  pipe  is  held  tight  in  his  teeth  as  I 
‘ have  always  seen  him  hold  it.  How  large,  how  pro- 
£ found,  how  simple  the  drawing ! How  easily  and 
£ how  naturally  he  lives  in  the  pose,  the  body  bent 
‘ forward,  the  elbows  on  the  table ! Fine  as  the 
£ Orchardson  undoubtedly  is,  it  seems  fatigued  and 
£ explanatory  by  the  side  of  this  wonderful  rendering 
c of  life ; thin  and  restless — like  Dumas  fils’  dialogue 
‘ when  we  compare  it  with  Ibsen’s.  The  woman  that 
£ sits  beside  the  artist  was  at  the  Elys£e  Montmartre 
£ until  two  in  the  morning,  then  she  went  to  the 
£ ratmort  and  had  a soupe  aux  choux;  she  lives  in  the 
£ Rue  Fontaine,  or  perhaps  the  Rue  Breda ; she  did 


266  THE  NEW  ART  CRITICISM. 


i not  get  up  till  half-past  eleven ; then  she  tied  a few 
£ soiled  petticoats  round  her,  slipped  on  that  peignoir, 

‘ thrust  her  feet  into  those  loose  morning  shoes, 

‘ and  came  down  to  the  cafe  to  have  an  absinthe 
1 before  breakfast.  Heavens  ! what  a slut ! A life  of 
£ idleness  and  low  vice  is  upon  her  face;  we  read  there 
‘ her  whole  life.  The  tale  is  not  a pleasant  one , but  it 
1 is  a lesson . Hogarth’s  view  was  larger,  wider,  but 
‘ not  so  incisive,  so  deep,  or  so  intense.  Then  how 
‘ loose  and  general  Hogarth’s  composition  would  seem 
‘ compared  to  this  marvellous  epitome,  this  essence  of 
‘ things ! That  open  space  in  front  of  the  table,  into 
1 which  the  skirt  and  the  lean  legs  of  the  man  come  so 
‘ well — how  well  the  point  of  view  was  selected ! The 
‘ beautiful,  dissonant  rhythm  of  that  composition  is 
‘ like  a page  of  Wagner — the  figures  crushed  into  the 
‘ right  of  the  canvas,  the  left  filled  up  with  a fragment 
c of  marble  table  running  in  sharp  perspective  into 
‘ the  foreground.  The  newspaper  lies  as  it  would  lie 
‘ across  the  space  between  the  tables.  The  colour, 
‘ almost  a monochrome,  is  very  beautiful,  a deep,  rich 
‘ harmony.  More  marvellous  work  the  world  never 
‘ saw,  and  will  never  see  again  : a maze  of  assimilated 
‘ influences,  strangely  assimilated,  and  eluding  definition 
‘ — remembrances  of  Watteau  and  the  Dutch  painters, 
1 a good  deal  of  Ingres’  spirit,  and,  in  the  vigour  of  the 
* arabesque,  we  may  perhaps  trace  the  influence  of 
‘ Poussin.  But  these  influences  float  evanescent  on 
‘ the  canvas,  and  the  reading  is  difficult  and  contra- 
‘ dietary.’ 

I have  written  many  a negligent  phrase,  many  a 
stupid  phrase,  but  the  italicised  phrase  is  the  first 


THE  NE  W ART  CRITICISM. 


267 


Hypocritical  phrase  I ever  wrote.  I plead  guilty  to 
the  grave  offence  of  having  suggested  that  a work  of 
art  is  more  than  a work  of  art.  The  picture  is  only 
a work  of  art,  and  therefore  void  of  all  ethical 
signification.  In  writing  the  abominable  phrase 
“ but  it  is  a lesson ,”  I admitted  as  a truth  the  ridi- 
culous contention  that  a work  of  art  may  influence 
a man’s  moral  conduct ; I admitted  as  a truth  the 
grotesque  contention  that  to  read  Mdlle.  de  Maupin 
may  cause  a man  to  desert  his  wife,  whereas  to  read 
Paradise  Lost  may  induce  him  to  return  to  her. 
In  the  abominable  phrase  which  1 plead  guilty  to 
having  written,  I admitted  the  monstrous  contention 
that  our  virtues  and  our  vices  originate  not  in  our 
inherited  natures,  but  are  found  in  the  books  we  read 
and  the  pictures  we  look  upon.  That  art  should  be 
pure  is  quite  another  matter,  and  the  necessity  of 
purity  in  art  can  be  maintained  for  other  than  ethical 
reasons.  Art — I am  speaking  now  of  literature — 

owes  a great  deal  to  ethics,  but  ethics  owes  nothing 
to  art.  Without  morality  the  art  of  the  novelist 
and  the  dramatist  would  cease.  So  we  are  more 
deeply  interested  in  the  preservation  of  public 
morality  than  any  other  class — the  clergy,  of  course, 
excepted.  To  accuse  us  of  indifference  in  this 
matter  is  absurd.  We  must  do  our  best  to  keep  up 
a high  standard  of  public  morality ; our  living  depends 
upon  it — and  it  would  be  difficult  to  suggest  a more 
powerful  reason  for  our  advocacy.  Nevertheless,  by  a 
curious  irony  of  fate  we  must  preserve — at  least,  in 
our  books — a distinctly  impartial  attitude  on  the  very 
subject  which  most  nearly  concerns  our  pockets. 


268 


THE  NEW  ART  CRITICISM. 


To  remove  these  serious  disabilities  should  be  our 
serious  aim.  It  might  be  possible  to  enter  into  some 
arrangement  with  the  bishops  to  allow  us  access  to 
the  pulpits.  Mr.  So-and-so's  episcopal  style — I refer 
not  only  to  this  gentleman's  writings,  but  also  to  his 
style  of  figure,  which,  on  account  of  the  opportunities 
it  offers  for  a display  of  calf,  could  not  fail  to  win 
their  lordships'  admiration — marks  him  as  the  proper 
head  and  spokesman  of  the  deputation ; and  his 
well-known  sympathies  for  the  pecuniary  interests 
of  authors  would  enable  him  to  explain  that  not 
even  their  lordships'  pockets  were  so  gravely  con- 
cerned in  the  maintenance  of  public  morality  as  our 
own. 

I have  allowed  my  pen  to  wander  somewhat  from 
the  subject  in  hand;  for  before  permitting  myself  to 
apologise  for  having  hypocritically  declared  a great 
picture  to  be  what  it  was  not,  and  could  not  be — 
“ a lesson  " — it  was  clearly  incumbent  on  me  to  show 
that  the  moral  question  was  the  backbone  of  the  art 
which  I practise  myself,  and  that  of  all  classes  none 
are  so  necessarily  moral  as  novelists.  I think  I have 
done  this  beyond  possibility  of  disproof,  or  even  of 
argument,  and  may  therefore  be  allowed  to  lament 
my  hypocrisy  with  as  many  tears  and  groans  as  I 
deem  sufficient  for  the  due  expiation  of  my  sin. 
Confession  eases  the  heart.  Listen.  My  description 
of  Degas'  picture  seemed  to  me  a little  unconventional, 
and  to  soothe  the  reader  who  is  shocked  by  every- 
thing that  lies  outside  his  habitual  thought,  and  to 
dodge  the  reader  who  is  always  on  the  watch 
to  introduce  a discussion  on  that  sterile  subject, 


THE  NEW  ART  CRITICISM.  269 


“ morality  in  art,”  to  make  things  pleasant  for  every- 
body, to  tickle  the  Philistine  in  his  tenderest  spot, 
I told  a little  lie  : I suggested,  that  some  one  had 
preached.  I ought  to  have  known  human  nature 
better — what  one  dog  does  another  dog  will  do,  and 
straight  away  preaching  began — Zola  and  the  drink 
question  from  Mr.  Richmond,  sociology  from  Mr. 
Crane. 

But  the  picture  is  merely  a work  of  art,  and  has 
nothing  to  do  with  drink  or  sociology;  and  its  title 
is  not  H Absinthe,  nor  even  Un  Homme  et  une  Femme 
assis  dans  un  Cafe , as  Mr.  Walter  Sickert  suggests, 
but  simply  Au  Cafe.  Mr.  Walter  Crane  writes : 
“ Here  is  a study  of  human  degradation,  male  and 
female.”  Perhaps  Mr.  Walter  Crane  will  feel  inclined 
to  apologise  for  his  language  when  he  learns  that  the 
man  who  sits  tranquilly  smoking  his  pipe  is  a portrait 
of  the  engraver  Deboutin,  a man  of  great  talent  and 
at  least  Mr.  Walter  Crane's  equal  as  a writer  and 
as  a designer.  True  that  M.  Deboutin  does  not 
dress  as  well  as  Mr.  Walter  Crane,  but  there  are 
many  young  men  in  Pall  Mall  who  would  consider 
Mr.  Crane's  velvet  coat,  red  necktie,  and  soft  felt 
hat  quite  intolerable,  yet  they  would  hardly  be 
justified  in  speaking  of  a portrait  of  Mr.  Walter 
Crane  as  a study  of  human  degradation.  Let  me 
assure  Mr.  Walter  Crane  that  when  he  speaks  of 
M.  Deboutin's  life  as  being  degraded,  he  is  speaking 
on  a subject  of  which  he  knows  nothing.  M. 
Deboutin  has  lived  a very  noble  life,  in  no  way 
inferior  to  Mr.  Crane's;  his  life  has  been  entirely 
devoted  to  art  and  literature ; his  etchings  have  been 


270 


THE  NE  W ART  CRITICISM. 


for  many  years  the  admiration  of  artistic  Paris,  and 
he  has  had  a play  in  verse  performed  at  the  Theatre 
Frangais. 

The  picture  represents  M.  Deboutin  in  the  cafe  of 
the  Nouvelle  Athenes  Fie  has  come  down  from  his 
studio  for  breakfast,  and  he  will  return  to  his  dry- 
points  when  he  has  finished  his  pipe.  I have  known 
M.  Deboutin  a great  number  of  years,  and  a more 
sober  man  does  not  exist;  and  Mr.  Crane’s  accusa- 
tions of  drunkenness  might  as  well  be  made  against 
Mr.  Bernard  Shaw,  When,  hypocritically,  I said  the 
picture  was  a lesson,  I referred  to  the  woman,  who 
happens  to  be  sitting  next  to  M.  Deboutin.  Mr. 
Crane,  Mr.  Richmond,  and  others  have  jumped  to 
the  conclusion  that  M.  Deboutin  has  come  to  the 
cafe  with  the  woman,  and  that  they  are  “boozing” 
together.  Nothing  can  be  farther  from  the  truth. 
Deboutin  always  came  to  the  caf£  alone,  as  did 
Manet,  Degas,  Duranty.  Deboutin  is  thinking  of  his 
dry-points;  the  woman  is  incapable  of  thought.  If 
questioned  about  her  life  she  would  probably  answer, 
“ Je  suls  a la  coule .”  But  there  is  no  implication  of 
drunkenness  in  the  phrase.  In  England  this  class  of 
woman  is  constantly  drunk,  in  France  hardly  ever; 
and  the  woman  Degas  has  painted  is  typical  of  her 
class,  and  she  wears  the  habitual  expression  of  her 
class.  And  the  interest  of  the  subject,  from  Degas’ 
point  of  view,  lies  in  this  strange  contrast — the  man 
thinking  of  his  dry-points,  the  woman  thinking,  as  the 
phrase  goes,  of  nothing  at  all.  Au  Cafe — that  is  the 
title  of  the  picture.  How  simple,  how  significant! 
And  how  the  picture  gains  in  meaning  when  the  web 


THE  NEW  ART  CRITICISM. 


271 


of  false  melodrama  that  a couple  of  industrious  spiders 
have  woven  about  it  is  brushed  aside  ! 

I now  turn  to  the  more  interesting,  and  what  I 
think  will  prove  the  more  instructive,  part  of  my  task 
— the  analysis  of  the  art  criticism  of  Mr.  Richmond 
and  Mr.  Crane. 

Mr.  Richmond  says  “ it  is  not  painting  at  all.”  We 
must  understand  therefore  that  the  picture  is  void  of 
all  accomplishment — composition,  drawing,  and  hand- 
ling. We  will  take  Mr.  Richmond’s  objections  in 
their  order.  The  subject-matter  out  of  which  the 
artist  extracted  his  composition  was  a man  and  woman 
seated  in  a cafe  furnished  with  marble  tables.  The 
first  difficulty  the  artist  had  to  overcome  was  the 
symmetry  of  the  lines  of  the  tables.  Not  only  are  they 
exceedingly  ugly  from  all  ordinary  points  of  view,  but 
they  cut  the  figures  in  two.  The  simplest  way  out  of 
the  difficulty  would  be  to  place  one  figure  on  one  side 
of  a table,  the  other  on  the  other  side,  and  this  com- 
position might  be  balanced  by  a waiter  seen  in  the 
distance.  That  would  be  an  ordinary  arrangement  of 
the  subject.  But  the  ingenuity  with  which  Degas 
selects  his  point  of  view  is  without  parallel  in  the 
whole  history  of  art.  And  this  picture  is  an  excellent 
example.  One  line  of  tables  runs  up  the  picture 
from  left  to  right,  another  line  of  tables,  indicated  by 
three  parts  of  one  table,  strikes  right  across  the  fore- 
ground. The  triangle  thus  formed  is  filled  by  the 
woman’s  dress,  which  is  darker  than  the  floor  and 
lighter  than  the  leather  bench  on  which  both  figures 
are  seated.  Looking  still  more  closely  into  the  com- 
position, we  find  that  it  is  made  of  several  perspectives 


272 


THE  NEW  ART  CRITICISM. 


— the  dark  perspective  of  the  bench,  the  light  perspec- 
tive of  the  partition  behind,  on  which  the  light  falls, 
and  the  rapid  perspective  of  the  marble  table  in  the 
foreground.  The  man  is  high  up  on  the  right-hand 
corner,  the  woman  is  in  the  middle  of  the  picture,  and 
Degas  has  been  careful  to  place  her  in  front  of  the 
opening  between  the  tables,  for  by  so  doing  he  was 
able  to  carry  his  half-tint  right  through  the  picture. 
The  empty  space  on  the  left,  so  characteristic  of 
Degas’s  compositions,  admirably  balances  the  com- 
position, and  it  is  only  relieved  by  the  stone  match- 
box, and  the  newspaper  thrown  across  the  opening 
between  the  tables.  Everywhere  a perspective,  and 
these  are  combined  with  such  strange  art  that  the 
result  is  synthetic.  A beautiful  dissonant  rhythm, 
always  symphonic  coulant  longours  de  source;  an  exas- 
perated vehemence  and  a continual  desire  of  novelty 
penetrated  and  informed  by  a severely  classical  spirit 
— that  is  my  reading  of  this  composition. 

‘The  qualities  admired  by  this  new  school  are 
‘ certainly  the  mirrors  of  that  side  of  the  nineteenth- 
‘ century  development  most  opposed  to  fine  painting, 

‘ or,  say,  fine  craftsmanship.  Hurry,  rush,  fashion,  are 
‘ the  enemies  of  toil,  patience,  and  seclusion,  without 
‘which  no  great  works  are  produced.  Hence  the 
‘ admiration  for  an  art  fully  answering  to  a demand. 
‘ No  doubt  impressionism  is  an  expression  in  painting 
‘of  the  deplorable  side  of  modern  life.’ 

After  “ forty  years  of  the  study  of  the  best  art  of 
various  schools  that  the  galleries  of  Europe  display, ’’ 
Mr.  Richmond  mistakes  Degas  for  an  impressionist 
(I  use  the  word  in  its  accepted  sense);  he  follows  the 


THE  NEW  ART  CRITICISM. 


273 


lead  of  the  ordinary  art  critic  who  includes  Degas 
among  the  impressionists  because  Degas  paints 
dancing  lessons,  and  because  he  has  once  or  twice 
exhibited  with  Monet  and  his  followers.  The  best 
way — possibly  the  only  way — to  obtain  any  notion  of 
the  depth  of  the  abyss  on  which  we  stand  will  be  by 
a plain  statement  of  the  facts. 

When  Ingres  fell  down  in  the  fit  from  which  he 
never  recovered,  it  was  Degas  who  carried  him  out  of 
his  studio.  Degas  had  then  been  working  with  Ingres 
only  a few  months,  but  that  brief  while  convinced 
Ingres  of  his  pupil's  genius,  and  it  is  known  that  he 
believed  that  it  would  be  Degas  who  would  carry 
on  the  classical  tradition  of  which  he  was  a great 
exponent.  Degas  has  done  this,  not  as  Flandren 
tried  to,  by  reproducing  the  externality  of  the 
master’s  work,  but  as  only  a man  of  genius  could, 
by  the  application  of  the  method  to  new  material. 
Degas’s  early  pictures,  “The  Spartan  Youths”  and 
“ Semiramis  building  the  Walls  of  Babylon,”  are  pure 
Ingres.  To  this  day  Degas  might  be  very  fairly 
described  as  un  petit  Ingres.  Do  we  not  find  Ingres’ 
penetrating  and  intense  line  in  the  thin  straining 
limbs  of  Degas’s  ballet-girls,  in  the  heavy  shoulders 
of  his  laundresses  bent  over  the  ironing  table,  and  in 
the  coarse  forms  of  his  housewives  who  sponge  them- 
selves in  tin  baths  ? The  vulgar,  who  see  nothing  of 
a work  of  art  but  its  external  side,  will  find  it  difficult 
to  understand  that  the  art  of  “ La  Source  ” and  of 
Degas’s  cumbersome  housewives  is  the  same.  To 
the  vulgar,  Bouguereau  and  not  Degas  is  the  inter- 
preter of  the  classical  tradition. 


274 


THE  NEW  ART  CRITICISM. 


c Hurry,  rush,  fashion,  are  the  enemies  of  toil, 
c patience,  and  seclusion,  without  which  no  great 
‘ works  are  produced.’ 

For  the  sake  of  his  beloved  drawing  Degas  has  for 
many  years  locked  himself  into  his  studio  from  early 
morning  till  late  at  night,  refusing  to  open  even  to  his 
most  intimate  friends.  Coming  across  him  one  morn- 
ing  in  a small  cafe,  where  he  went  at  midday  to  eat  a 
cutlet,  I said,  “ My  dear  friend,  I haven’t  seen  you  for 
years;  when  may  I come?”  The  answer  I received 
was:  “ You’re  an  old  friend,  and  if  you’ll  make  an 
appointment  I’ll  see  you.  But  I may  as  well  tell  you 
that  for  the  last  two  years  no  one  has  been  in  my 
studio.”  On  the  whole  it  is  perhaps  as  well  that  I 
declined  to  make  an  appointment,  for  another  old 
friend  who  went,  and  who  stayed  a little  longer  than 
he  was  expected  to  stay,  was  thrown  down  the  staircase. 
And  that  staircase  is  spiral,  as  steep  as  any  ladder. 
Until  he  succeeded  in  realising  his  art  Degas’s  tongue 
was  the  terror  of  artistic  Paris ; his  solitary  days,  the 
strain  on  the  nerves  that  the  invention  and  composi- 
tion of  his  art,  so  entirely  new  and  original,  entailed, 
wrecked  his  temper,  and  there  were  moments  when 
his  friends  began  to  dread  the  end  that  his  striving 
might  bring  about.  But  with  the  realisation  of  his 
artistic  ideal  his  real  nature  returned,  and  he  is  now 
full  of  kind  words  for  the  feeble,  and  full  of  indulgence 
for  the  slightest  artistic  effort. 

The  story  of  these  terrible  years  of  striving  is  written 
plainly  enough  on  every  canvas  signed  by  Degas  ; yet 
Mr.  Richmond  imagines  him  skipping  about  airily  from 
cafe  to  cafe,  dashing  off  little  impressions.  In  another 


THE  NEW  ART  CRITICISM. 


275 


letter  Mr.  Richmond  says,  'Perfect  craftsmanship, 
‘such  as  was  Van  Eyck’s,  Holbein’s,  Bellini’s,  Michael 
‘Angelo’s,  becomes  more  valuable  as  time  goes  on.’ 
It  is  interesting  to  hear  that  Mr.  Richmond  admires 
Holbein’s  craftsmanship,  but  it  will  be  still  more 
interesting  if  he  will  explain  how  and  why  the  head  of 
the  old  Bohemian  in  the  picture  entitled  “ L’ Absinthe  ” 
is  inferior  to  Holbein.  The  art  of  Holbein,  as  I 
understand  it — and  if  I do  not  understand  it  rightly  I 
shall  be  delighted  to  have  my  mistake  explained  to 
me — consists  of  measurements  and  the  power  of 
observing  and  following  an  outline  with  remorseless 
precision.  Now  Degas  in  his  early  manner  was 
frequently  this.  His  portrait  of  his  father  listening  to 
Pagan  singing  whilst  he  accompanied  himself  on  the 
guitar  is  pure  Holbein.  Whether  it  is  worse  or  better 
than  Holbein  is  a matter  of  individual  opinion ; but 
to  affect  to  admire  Holbein  and  to  decline  to  admire 
the  portrait  I speak  of  is — well,  incomprehensible. 
The  portrait  of  Deboutin  in  the  picture  entitled 
“ L’Absinthe  ” is  a later  work,  and  is  not  quite  so 
nearly  in  the  manner  of  Holbein ; but  it  is  quite 
nearly  enough  to  allow  me  to  ask  Mr.  Richmond  to 
explain  how,  and  why  it  is  inferior  to  Holbein.  In- 
ferior is  not  the  word  I want,  for  Mr.  Richmond  holds 
Holbein  to  be  one  of  the  greatest  painters  the  world 
ever  knew,  and  Degas  to  be  hardly  a painter  at  all. 

For  three  weeks  the  pens  of  art  critics,  painters, 
designers,  and  engravers  have  been  writing  about 
this  picture — about  this  rough  Bohemian  who  leans 
over  the  caf£  table  with  his  wooden  pipe  fixed  fast 
between  his  teeth,  with  his  large  soft  felt  hat  on  the 


276  THE  NEW  ART  CRITICISM. 


back  of  his  head,  upheld  there  by  a shock  of  bushy 
hair,  with  his  large  battered  face  grown  around  with 
scanty,  unkempt  beard,  illuminated  by  a fixed  and 
concentrated  eye  which  tells  us  that  his  thoughts 
are  in  pursuit  of  an  idea — about  one  of  the  finest 
specimens  of  the  art  of  this  century — and  what  have 
they  told  us  ? Mr.  Richmond  mistakes  the  work  for 
some  hurried  sketch — impressionism — and  practically 
declares  the  painting  to  be  worthless.  Mr.  Walter 
Crane  says  it  is  only  fit  for  a sociological  museum  or 
for  an  illustrated  tract  in  a temperance  propaganda ; 
he  adds  some  remarks  about  “ a new  Adam  and  Eve 
and  a paradise  of  unnatural  selection  ” which  escape 
my  understanding.  An  engraver  said  that  the  picture 
was  a vulgar  subject  vulgarly  painted.  Another  set  of 
men  said  the  picture  was  wonderful,  extraordinary, 
perfect,  complete,  excellent.  But  on  neither  side 
was  any  attempt  made  to  explain  why  the  picture  was 
bad  or  why  the  picture  was  excellent.  The  picture  is 
excellent,  but  why  is  it  excellent  ? Because  the  scene 
is  like  a real  scene  passing  before  your  eyes  ? Because 
nothing  has  been  omitted  that  might  have  been  in- 
cluded, because  nothing  has  been  included  that  might 
have  been  omitted?  Because  the  painting  is  clear, 
smooth,  and  limpid  and  pleasant  to  the  eye  ? Because 
the  colour  is  harmonious,  and  though  low  in  tone,  rich 
and  strong  ? Because  each  face  is  drawn  in  its  dis- 
tinctive lines,  and  each  tells  the  tale  of  instincts  and  of 
race  ? Because  the  clothing  is  in  its  accustomed  folds 
and  is  full  of  the  individuality  of  the  wearer?  We 
look  on  this  picture  and  we  ask  ourselves  how  it  is 
that  amongst  the  tens  and  hundreds  of  thousands  of 


THE  NEW  ART  CRITICISM. 


277 


men  who  have  painted  men  and  women  in  their  daily 
occupations,  habits,  and  surroundings,  no  one  has  said 
so  much  in  so  small  a space,  no  one  has  expressed 
himself  with  that  simplicity  which  draws  all  veils  aside, 
and  allows  us  to  look  into  the  heart  of  nature. 

Where  is  the  drawing  visible  except  in  the  result  ? 
How  beautifully  concise  it  is,  and  yet  it  is  large, 
supple,  and  true  without  excess  of  reality.  Can  you 
detect  anywhere  a measurement?  Do  you  perceive 
a base,  a fixed  point  from  which  the  artist  calculated 
and  compared  his  drawing  ? That  hat,  full  of  the 
ill-usage  of  the  studio,  hanging  on  the  shock  of 
bushy  hair,  the  perspective  of  those  shoulders,  and 
the  round  of  the  back,  determining  the  exact  width 
and  thickness  of  the  body,  the  movement  of  the 
arm  leaning  on  the  table,  and  the  arm  perfectly  in 
the  sleeve,  and  the  ear  and  the  shape  of  the  neck 
hidden  in  the  shadow  of  the  hat  and  hair,  and  the 
battered  face,  sparely  sown  with  an  ill-kempt  beard, 
illuminated  by  a fixed  look  which  tells  us  that  his 
thoughts  are  in  pursuit  of  an  idea — this  old  Bohemian 
smoking  his  pipe,  does  he  not  seem  to  have  grown  out 
of  the  canvas  as  naturally  and  mysteriously  as  a herb 
or  plant  ? By  the  side  of  this  drawing  do  not  all  the 
drawings  in  the  gallery  of  English,  French,  Belgian, 
and  Scandinavian  seem  either  childish,  ignorant- 
timed,  or  presumptuous  ? By  the  side  of  this  picture 
do  not  all  the  other  pictures  in  the  gallery  seem  like 
little  painted  images  ? 

Compared  with  this  drawing,  wTould  not  Holbein 
seem  a little  geometrical?  Again  I ask  if  you  can 
detect  in  any  outline  or  accent  a fixed  point  from 


27B  THE  NEW  ART  CRITICISM, 


whence  the  drawing  was  measured,  calculated,  and 
constructed.  In  the  drawing  of  all  the  other  painters 
you  trace  the  method  and  you  take  note  of  the  know- 
ledge through  which  the  model  has  been  seen  and 
which  has,  as  it  were,  dictated  to  the  eye  what  it 
should  see.  But  in  Degas  the  science  of  the  drawing 
is  hidden  from  us — a beautiful  flexible  drawing  almost 
impersonal,  bending  to  and  following  the  character,  as 
naturally  as  the  banks  follow  the  course  of  their  river. 

I stop,  although  I have  not  said  everything.  To 
complete  my  study  of  this  picture  we  should  have  to 
examine  that  smooth,  clean,  supple  painting  of  such 
delicate  and  yet  such  a compact  tissue;  we  should 
have  to  study  that  simple  expressive  modelling ; we 
should  have  to  consider  the  resources  of  that  palette, 
reduced  almost  to  a monochrome  and  yet  so  full  of 
colour.  I stop,  for  I think  I have  said  enough  to 
rouse  if  not  to  fully  awaken  suspicion  in  Mr.  Rich- 
mond and  Mr.  Crane  of  the  profound  science  con- 
cealed in  a picture  about  which  I am  afraid  they  have 
written  somewhat  thoughtlessly. 

In  the  midst  of  a somewhat  foolish  and  ignorant 
argument  regarding  the  morality  and  the  craftsmanship 
of  a masterpiece,  the  right  of  the  new  art  criticism  to 
adversely  criticise  the  work  of  Royal  Academicians  has 
been  called  into  question.  I cull  the  following  from 
the  columns  of  the  Westminster  Gazette ; — 

‘ Their  words  are  practically  the  same ; their  praise 
‘ and  blame  are  similarly  inspired ; the  means  they 
1 employ  to  gain  their  object  identical.  So  much  we 
‘ can  see  for  ourselves.  As  for  their  object  and  their 


THE  NEW  ART  CRITICISM.  279 

4 bona-fides , they  concern  me  not.  It  is  what  they  do, 

1 not  what  they  are,  that  is  the  question  here.  What 
4 they  do  is  to  form  a caucus  in  art  criticism,  and  owing 
4 to  their  vehemence  and  the  limitation  of  their  aim,  a 
4 caucus  which  is  increasing  in  influence,  and,  to  the 
4 best  of  my  belief,  doing  cruel  injustice  to  many  great 
4 artists,  and  much  injury  to  English  art.  It  is  for  this 
4 reason,  and  this  reason  only,  that  I have  taken  up  my 
4 parable  on  the  subject.  I have  in  vain  endeavoured 
4 to  induce  those  whose  words  would  come  with  far 
4 greater  authority  than  mine  to  do  so.  I went  per- 
4 sonally  to  the  presidents  of  the  two  greatest  artistic 
4 bodies  in  the  kingdom  to  ask  them  to  speak  or  write 
4 on  the  subject,  but  I found  their  view  to  be  that 
4 such  action  would  be  misconstrued,  and  would  in 
4 their  position  be  unbecoming.’ 

The  meaning  of  all  this  is  that  the  ferret  is  in 
the  hole  and  the  rats  have  begun  to  squeak  already. 
Soon  they  will  come  hopping  out  of  St.  John’s  Wood 
Avenue,  so  make  ready  your  sticks  and  stones. 

In  April  1892  I wrote:  4 The  position  of  the 
4 Academy  is  as  impregnable  as  Gibraltar.  But  Gib- 
4 raltar  itself  was  once  captured  by  a small  company 
4 of  resolute  men,  and  if  ever  there  exist  in  London  six 
4 resolute  art  critics,  each  capable  of  distinguishing 
4 between  a bad  picture  and  a good  one,  each  deter- 
4 mined  at  all  costs  to  tell  the  truth,  and  if  these  six 
4 critics  will  keep  in  line,  then,  and  not  till  then,  some 
4 of  the  reforms  so  urgently  needed,  and  so  often 
4 demanded  from  the  Academy,  will  be  granted.  I do 
4 not  mean  that  these  six  critics  will  bring  the  Academi- 
4 dans  on  their  knees  by  writing  fulminating  articles  on 


280 


THE  NEW  ART  CRITICISM. 


4 the  Academy.  Such  attacks  were  as  idle  as  whistling 
4 for  rain  on  the  house-tops.  The  Academicians  laugh 
4 at  such  attacks,  relying  on  the  profound  indifference 
* of  the  public  to  artistic  questions.  But  there  is 
4 another  kind  of  attack  which  the  Academicians  may 
4 not  ignore,  and  that  is  true  criticism.  If  six  news- 
4 papers  were  to  tell  the  simple  truth  about  the  canvases 
4 which  the  Academicians  will  exhibit  next  month,  the 
4 Academicians  would  soon  cry  out  for  quarter  and 
' grant  all  necessary  reforms.’ 

I have  only  now  to  withdraw  the  word  “ reform.” 
The  Academy  cannot  reform,  and  must  be  destroyed. 
The  Academy  has  tried  to  reform,  and  has  failed. 
Thirty  years  ago  the  pre-Raphaelite  movement  nearly 
succeeded  in  bringing  about  an  effectual  shipwreck. 
But  when  Mr.  Holman  Hunt  went  to  Italy,  special 
terms  were  offered  and  accepted.  The  election  of 
Millais  and  Watts  saved  the  Academy,  and  instead  of 
the  Academy,  it  was  the  genius  of  one  of  England’s 
greatest  painters  that  was  destroyed.  4 4 Ophelia,” 
“Autumn  Leaves,” and  44 St.  Agnes’  Eve”  are  pictures 
that  will  hold  their  own  in  any  gallery  among  pictures 
of  every  age  and  every  country.  But  fathomless  is 
the  abyss  which  separates  them  from  Sir  John  Millais’ 
academic  work. 

The  Academy  is  a distinctly  commercial  enterprise. 
Has  not  Sir  John  Millais  said,  in  an  interview,  that 
the  hanging  committee  at  Burlington  House  selects 
the  pictures  that  will  draw  the  greatest  number  of 
shillings.  The  Academy  has  been  subventioned 
by  the  State  to  the  extent  of  three  hundred  thou- 
sand pounds,  and  that  money  has  been  employed 


THE  NEW  ART  CRITICISM. 


281 


in  arrogant  commercialism.  The  Academy  holds 
a hundred  thousand  pounds  in  trust,  left  by  Mr. 
Chantry  for  the  furtherance  of  art  in  this  country; 
and  this  money  is  spent  on  the  purchase  of  pictures 
by  impecunious  Academicians,  and  the  collection 
formed  with  this  money  is  one  of  the  seven  horrors 
of  civilisation.  The  Academy  has  tolerated  genius 
when  it  was  popular,  it  has  trampled  upon  genius 
when  it  was  unpopular;  and  the  business  of  the  new 
art  criticism  is  to  rid  art  of  the  incubus.  The 
Academy  must  be  destroyed,  and  when  that  is 
accomplished  the  other  Royal  institutes  will  follow 
as  a matter  of  course.  The  object  of  the  new  art 
criticism  is  to  give  free  trade  to  art. 


LONG  AGO  IN  ITALY. 

Come  to  the  New  Gallery.  We  shall  pass  out  of 
sight  of  flat  dreary  London,  drab-coloured  streets 
full  of  overcoats,  silk  hats,  dripping  umbrellas,  omni- 
buses. We  shall  pass  out  of  sight  of  long  perspectives 
of  square  houses  lost  in  fine  rain  and  grey  mist. 
We  shall  enter  an  enchanted  land,  a land  of  angels 
and  aureoles ; of  crimson  and  gold,  and  purple 
raiment  3 of  beautiful  youths  crowned  with  flowers ; 
of  fabulous  blue  landscape  and  delicate  architecture. 
Know  ye  the  land  ? Botticelli  is  king  there,  king  of 
clasped  hands  and  almond-eyed  Madonnas.  It  was 
he  who  conceived  and  designed  that  enigmatic  Virgin’s 
face ; it  was  he  who  placed  that  long-fingered  hand  on 
the  thigh  of  the  Infant  God;  it  was  he  who  coiled 
that  heavy  hair  about  that  triangle  of  neck  and 
interwove  it  with  pearls;  it  was  he  who  drew  the 
graceful  lace  over  the  head-dress,  and  painted  it  in 
such  innumerable  delicacy  of  fold  that  we  wonder 
and  are  fain  to  believe  that  it  is  but  the  magic  of  an 
instant’s  hallucination.  Know  ye  the  land  ? Filippo 
Lippi  is  prince  there,  prince  of  angel  youths,  fair 
hair  crowned  with  fair  flowers;  they  stand  round  a 
tall  throne  with  strings  of  coral  and  precious  stones 
in  their  hands.  It  was  Filippo  Lippi  who  composed 


LONG  AGO  IN  ITALY. 


283 


that  palette  of  grey  soft  pearly  pink ; it  was  he  who 
placed  that  beautiful  red  in  the  right-hand  corner, 
and  carried  it  with  such  enchanting  harmony  through 
the  yellow  raiment  of  the  angel  youth,  echoing  it  in 
a subdued  key  in  the  vesture  which  the  Virgin  wears 
under  her  blue  garment,  and  by  means  of  the  red 
coral  which  decorates  the  tall  throne  he  carried  it 
round  the  picture;  it  was  he,  too,  who  filled  those 
angel  eyes  with  passion  such  as  awakens  in  heaven 
at  the  touch  of  wings,  at  the  sound  of  citherns  and 
cintoles. 

Know  ye  the  land  where  Botticelli  and  Filippo 
Lippi  dreamed  immortal  dreams?  Know  ye  the 
land,  Italy  in  the  fifteenth  century?  Exquisite 
angel  faces  were  their  visions  by  day  and  night,  and 
their  thoughts  were  mystic  landscapes  and  fantastic 
architecture ; aureoles,  roses,  pearls,  and  rich  em- 
broideries were  parcel  of  their  habitual  sense ; and 
the  decoration  of  a surface  with  beautiful  colour  was 
their  souls'  desire.  Of  truth  of  effect  and  local  colour 
they  knew  nothing,  and  cared  nothing.  Beauty  for 
beauty's  sake  was  the  first  article  of  their  faith. 
They  measured  a profile  with  relentless  accuracy, 
and  followed  its  outline  unflinchingly,  their  intention 
was  no  more  than  to  produce  a likeness  of  the  lady 
who  sat  posing  for  her  portrait,  but  some  miracle 
saved  them  from  base  naturalism.  The  humblest, 
equally  with  the  noblest  dreamer,  was  preserved  from 
it ; and  that  their  eyes  naturally  saw  more  beautifully 
than  ours  seems  to  be  the  only  explanation.  Ugliness 
must  have  always  existed ; but  Florentine  eyes  did 
not  see  ugliness.  Or  did  their  eyes  see  it,  and  did 


284 


LONG  AGO  IN  ITALY 


they  disdain  it?  Do  they  owe  their  art  to  a wise 
aestheticism,  or  to  a fortunate  limitation  of  sight? 
These  are  questions  that  none  may  answer,  but 
which  rise  up  in  our  mind  and  perplex  us  when  we 
enter  the  New  Gallery;  for  verily  it  would  seem, 
from  the  dream  pictures  there,  that  a time  once 
existed  upon  earth  when  the  world  was  fair  as  a 
garden,  and  life  was  a happy  aspiration.  In  the 
fifteenth  century  the  world  seems  to  have  been  made 
of  gold,  jewellery,  pictures,  embroidered  stuffs,  statues, 
and  engraved  weapons;  in  the  fifteenth  century  the 
world  seems  to  have  been  inhabited  only  by  nobles 
and  prelates;  and  the  only  buildings  that  seem  to 
have  existed  were  palaces  and  cathedrals.  Then  Art 
seemed  for  all  men,  and  life  only  for  architecture, 
painting,  carving,  and  engraving  long  rapiers ; and 
length  of  time  for  monks  to  illuminate  great  missals 
in  the  happy  solitude  of  their  cells,  and  for  nuns 
to  weave  embroideries  and  to  stitch  jewelled  vest- 
ments. 

The  Florentines  loved  their  children  as  dearly  as 
we  do  ours;  but  in  their  pictures  there  is  but  the 
Divine  Child.  They  loved  girls  and  gallantries  as 
well  as  we  do ; but  in  their  pictures  there  are  but 
the  Virgin  and  a few  saints. 

History  tells  us  that  wars,  massacres,  and  persecu- 
tions were  frequent  in  the  fifteenth  century;  but  in 
its  art  we  learn  no  more  of  the  political  than  we 
do  of  the  domestic  life  of  the  century.  The  Virgin 
and  Child  were  sufficient  inspiration  for  hundreds  of 
painters.  Now  she  is  in  full-face,  now  in  three- 
quarter  face,  now  in  profile.  In  this  picture  she 


LONG  AGO  IN  ITALY. 


285 


wears  a blue  cloak,  in  that  picture  she  is  clad  in  a 
grey.  She  is  alone  with  the  Child  in  a bower  of 
tall  roses,  or  she  is  seated  on  a high  throne.  Perhaps 
the  painter  has  varied  the  composition  by  the  intro- 
duction of  St.  John  leaning  forward  with  clasped 
hands ; or  maybe  he  has  introduced  a group  of 
angels,  as  Filippo  Lippi  has  done.  The  throne  is 
sometimes  high,  sometimes  low ; but  such  slight 
alteration  is  enough  for  a new  picture.  And  several 
generations  of  painters  seem  to  have  lived  and  died  be- 
lieving that  their  art  was  to  all  practical  and  artistic  pur- 
poses limited  to  the  continual  variation  of  this  theme. 

Among  these  painters  Botticelli  was  the  incon- 
testable master;  but  about  him  crowd  hundreds 
of  pictures,  pictures  rather  than  names.  Imagine  a 
number  of  workmen  anxious  to  know  how  they 
should  learn  to  paint  well,  to  paint  with  brilliancy, 
with  consistency,  with  ease,  and  with  lasting  colours. 
Imagine  a collection  of  gold  ornaments,  jewels,  and 
enamels,  in  which  we  can  detect  the  skill  of  the 
goldsmith,  of  the  painter  of  stained-glass,  of  the 
engraver,  and  of  the  illuminator  of  missals ; the 
inspiration  is  grave  and  monastic,  the  destination  a 
palace  or  a cathedral,  the  effect  dazzling;  and  out 
of  this  miraculous  handicraft  Filippo  Lippi  is  always 
distinct,  soft  as  the  dawn,  mysterious  as  a flower,  less 
vigorous  but  more  illusive  than  Botticelli,  and  so 
strangely  personal  that  while  looking  at  him  we  are 
absorbed. 

To  differentiate  between  the  crowd  of  workmen 
that  surrounded  Filippo  Lippi  and  Botticelli  were 
impossible.  They  painted  beautiful  things  because 


286 


LONG  AGO  IN  ITALY. 


they  lived  in  an  age  in  which  ugliness  hardly  existed, 
or  was  not  as  visible  as  it  is  now ; they  were  content 
to  merge  their  personalities  in  an  artistic  formula ; 
none  sought  to  invent  a personality  which  did’  not 
exist  in  himself.  Employing  without  question  a 
method  of  drawing  and  of  painting  that  was  common 
to  all  of  them,  they  worked  in  perfect  sympathy, 
almost  in  collaboration.  Plagiarism  was  then  a 
virtue ; they  took  from  each  other  freely ; and  the 
result  is  a collective  rather  than  individual  inspira- 
tions. Now  and  $hen  genius  breaks  through,  as  a 
storm  breaks  a /pell  of  summer  weather.  “The 
Virgin  and  Child,  with  St.  Clare  and  St.  Agatha,” 
lent  by  Mrs.  Austin  and  the  trustees  of  the  late 
J,  T.  Austin,  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  pic- 
tures I have  ever  seen.  The  temperament  of  the 
painter,  his  special  manner  of  feeling  and  seeing, 
is  strangely,  almost  audaciously,  affirmed  in  the 
mysterious  sensuality  of  the  angels’  faces;  the 
painter  lays  bare  a rare  and  remote  corner  of  his 
soul ; something  has  been  said  that  was  never  said 
before,  and  never  has  been  said  so  well  since.  But 
if  the  expression  given  to  these  angels  is  distinctive, 
it  is  extraordinarily  enhanced  by  the  beauty  of  the 
colour.  Indeed,  the  harmony  of  the  colour-scheme 
is  inseparable  from  the  melodious  expressiveness  of 
the  eyes.  Look  at  the  gesture  of  the  hand  on  the 
right ; is  not  the  association  of  ideas  strangely 
intimate,  curious,  and  profound? 

But  come  and  let  us  look  at  a real  Botticelli,  a 
work  which  convinces  at  the  first  glance  by  the 
extraordinary  expressiveness  of  the  drawing,  by  the 


LONG  AGO  IN  ITAL  V 


287 


originality  of  the  design,  by  the  miraculous  handicraft ; 
let  us  look  at  the  “Virgin  and  Child  and  St.  John/5 
lent  by  Messrs.  Colnaghi. 

It  is  a panel  some  36  by  25  inches,  almost  filled  by  a 
life-size  three-quarter-length  figure  of  the  Virgin.  She 
is  seated  on  the  right,  and  holds  the  Infant  Saviour  in 
her  arms.  In  the  foreground  on  the  left  there  is  a 
book  and  cushion,  behind  which  St.  John  stands,  his 
hands  clasped,  bearing  a cross.  Never  was  a head 
designed  with  more  genius  than  that  strange  Virgin, 
ecstatic,  mysterious,  sphinx-like ; with  half-closed  eyes, 
she  bends  her  face  to  meet  her  God5s  kiss.  In  this 
picture  Botticelli  sought  to  realise  the  awfulness  of 
the  Christian  mystery : the  Mother  leans  to  the  kiss 
of  her  Son — her  Son,  who  is  likewise  her  God, 
and  her  brain  is  dim  with  its  ecstasy.  She  is  per- 
turbed and  overcome ; the  kiss  is  in  her  brain,  and 
it  trembles  on  her  lips.  You  who  have  not  seen 

the  picture  will  think  that  this  description  is  but 
the  tale  of  the  writer  who  reads  his  fancies  into  the 
panel  before  him.  But  the  intention  of  the  painter 
did  not  outstrip  the  power  of  expression  which  his 
fingers  held.  He  expressed  what  I say  he  expressed, 
and  more  perfectly,  more  suggestively,  than  any  words. 
And  how?  It  will  be  imagined  that  it  was  by  means 
of  some  illusive  line  that  Botticelli  rendered  the  very 
touch  and  breath  of  this  extraordinary  kiss ; by  that 
illusive  line  which  Degas  employs  in  his  expressions  of 
the  fugitive  and  the  evanescent.  How  great,  there- 
fore, is  our  surprise  when  we  look  into  the  picture 
to  find  that  the  mystery  and  ecstasy  of  this  kiss  are 
expressed  by  a hard,  firm,  dark  line. 


288 


LONG  AGO  IN  ITALY. 


And  the  sensation  of  this  strange  ecstatic  kiss  per- 
vades the  entire  composition ; it  is  embodied  in  the 
hand  placed  so  reverently  on  the  thigh  of  the  Infant 
God  and  in  the  eyes  of  St.  John,  who  watches  the 
divine  mystery  which  is  being  accomplished.  On  St. 
John’s  face  there  is  earthly  reverence  and  awe;  on 
Christ’s  face,  though  it  is  drawn  in  rigid  outline, 
though  it  looks  as  if  it  were  stamped  out  of  iron, 
there  is  universal  love,  cloudlike  and  ineffable ; and 
Christ’s  knees  are  drawn  close,  and  the  hand  of  the 
Virgin  holds  them  close ; and  through  the  hand  come 
bits  of  draperies  exquisitely  designed.  Indeed,  the 
distribution  of  line  through  the  picture  is  as  perfect 
as  the  distribution  of  colour;  the  form  of  the  blue 
cloak  is  as  perfect  as  the  colour,  and  the  green  cape 
falls  from  the  shoulder,  satisfying  both  senses;  the 
crimson  vesture  which  she  wears  underneath  her  cloak 
is  extraordinarily  pure,  and  balances  the  crimson  cloak 
which  St.  John  wears.  But  these  beauties  are  subor- 
dinate to  the  beauty  of  the  Virgin’s  head.  How 
grand  it  is  in  style ! How  strange  and  enigmatic ! 
And  in  the  design  of  that  head  Botticelli  has  displayed 
all  his  skill.  The  fair  hair  is  covered  with  delicate 
gauze  edged  with  lace,  and  overcoming  the  difficulties 
of  that  most  rebellious  of  all  mediums — -tempera  ! — his 
brush  worked  over  the  surface,  fulfilling  his  slightest 
thought,  realising  all  the  transparency  of  gauze,  the 
intricacy  of  lace,  the  brightness  of  crimson  silk,  the 
very  gravity  of  the  embossed  binding  of  the  book, 
the  sway  and  texture  of  every  drapery,  the  gold  of  the 
tall  cross,  and  the  darker  gold  of  the  aureole  high  up 
in  the  picture,  set  against  a strip  of  Florentine  sky. 


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